


Death Doesn't Deter Me

by DayDaDahlias



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst with a Happy Ending, Excessive Drinking, F/F, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Literal Sleeping Together, Love Triangles, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Slurs, Smoking, War flashbacks, baby bibles, classy, like the slowest, one singular sensation(al sex scene)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-01-11 02:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 269,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18420939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayDaDahlias/pseuds/DayDaDahlias
Summary: World War II is over, finally. Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross are returning to the US from France where they were deployed. Neither are very excited to return home; Ryan to a girl he hasn't spoken with in three years, Brendon to a home he refuses to talk about. And Ryan can't help thinking, as he realizes that he will never see Brendon again, that he might just miss him. And yeah, if he liked boys, Brendon could be a boy he might like.





	1. Nowhere and That Green Gentleman

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, first work in this fandom. Really hope you enjoy it, yadda yadda, introduction, blah blah. 
> 
> I would like to dedicate this story to the word ‘shit’ for getting me through so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, I own none of these real people. Only the plot and the mistakes are mine.

Brendon Urie was a pretty enough guy and Ryan found himself thinking—as he stared blankly across the table—that if he liked guys then Brendon Urie would definitely be a guy he could like. 

_He’s got a good face. A_ really _good face actually_ , Ryan thought. 

He was feminine enough, what with his full lips and large batting eyes. With a fella that looked so much like a girl, Ryan wouldn’t feel so much like a fag. And that’s why he was having such ideas. Such thoughts. Just because Brendon Urie happened to be the kind of fella that looked a lot like a dame. 

He had this timid way of sitting, Brendon, with his eyes downcast and his chin down too and the way he folded his legs over one another and put his hands in his lap. Like he wanted to take up as little room as possible. Ryan didn’t have that problem, stretching his entire lanky form over the train car’s bench, hanging one of his legs over the armchair. 

Ryan was interested in him. What with so much room and all. Why wouldn't you want to stretch out? There was plenty of space. 

Brendon was sitting absently across from Ryan on the train with an utterly depressing look on his face. Ryan desperately wanted to tell Brendon to wipe that painful frown off his mug but what good would it have done? Ryan couldn’t imagine himself looking very nice either. He certainly wasn’t smiling and, frankly, it was getting to the point where he doubted he could ever smile again. Not with the way he currently felt.

But _Brendon_ should smile. He wasn’t nearly as pretty when he frowned. 

Ryan wondered when it was, exactly, that Brendon had stopped smiling so proudly. 

He used to smile. His change—the change between a white-toothed grin and a pucker lipped frown—was surely a recent development. Recent as in it happened during the last few days. The smile he usually sported felt like it had faded the moment the men found they’d be going back to America. That it was all over. Freedom. 

Ryan didn’t really understand that. The depression that had seemed to take over Brendon the moment he’d found out he was heading home. 

How could that be upsetting? Wasn’t that the whole point of it? To go home. 

No one person won the war. So even if they were all together fighting for something, each man himself was fighting for nothing. All those men they lost. All those men that Ryan had to watch fall. They didn’t matter in the grand scheme. History books wouldn’t dedicate a page to each of their memories. 

So what was the point of it all, individually? Fight until you died or you got sent home. That’s all there was to it. You fought until you couldn’t. Until you were allowed to leave. Either under the guise of victory, or in a body bag. 

Brendon and he—Brendon and Ryan—they were the lucky ones. Weren’t they? 

Hadn’t been shot through the head, the stomach, the chest. Not the leg or arm. 

Ryan and Brendon were home free. Their scars weren’t deep gashes in their stomachs that their intestines fled out of.

No gaping holes through their skulls with their brains dripping down their noses. No burnt off legs. They could walk just fine. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

Ryan had a bit of a limp to him, sure. But it was an awkward stagger at worst. People on the street wouldn’t look twice at him. No one would ask him how he got that limp. No one did. Even Brendon hadn’t asked. 

The limp wasn’t from the war, so he couldn’t count it. That was just how Ryan Ross came. A toy broken straight out of the box. 

Brendon walked perfectly. Better than most. Long strides with his lean legs. He could run fast too. No leg injuries to speak of. If Brendon Urie wanted to run, he’d sprint. 

Brendon and Ryan didn’t have their arms cut off, or blown off, and they weren’t burned. They weren’t damaged goods. Not physically. 

A scar through Brendon’s eyebrow where a shattered rock piece that got blown up had hit him but that was nothing. It was fading anyhow. A dulled crescent shape on his left hand. The mark of a stray dog’s bite. 

Ryan had warned him not to touch it. 

They got out and they got out alive. Period. Should be exciting. Shouldn’t it? 

So why then did Brendon look so utterly depressing and why did Ryan’s stomach feel so hollow?

No missing legs. No missing arms. No brain holes and no leaking intestines. But the scratches across Ryan’s soul? The deep lacerations around his heart and burn marks on his spirit? Harder for him to ignore. 

It was times like those that Ryan wished he was missing something. 

At least then—if they could _see_ the pain; see it on the outside of him—the public could give him those sad eyes. Those oh-so-caring eyes and ask him what happened. 

Brendon had pulled his elbow up against the arm of his chair, chin resting in his hand, and his shoulder pressed against the window. Ryan sat across from him and chewed at his fingernails. 

Brendon could probably hear the cracking and biting across the table. Surely he did, because his eyes flashed over, his black gaze slinking over Ryan tiredly. 

He had nice eyes, didn’t he? Big and round and there was always some sort of emotion in them. 

Ryan could always tell what Brendon was thinking when he looked in those eyes. Always read the emotion in them. But not on the train. There, back home, Brendon’s eyes didn’t give anything away. 

Ryan waited for a snappy remark. Something to tell him to _quit it. You’re bothering me._ But none of that. 

Brendon was depressed and, Jesus, was he depressing. 

Ryan stopped chewing his nails after Brendon looked back out the window. 

“You think they’ll… have a parade set up for us or something?” Ryan asked loudly, boldly, and Brendon looked up again with a bored expression.

Glazed over eyes like he was drunk. But Ryan had seen Brendon drunk and the dazed look he saw on the train wasn’t the same. No shiny smiles or hiccuping laughs. Only foggy eyes and quiet stares. 

They’d had drinks the night they found that they would be going home. A whole party, really. 

Men drank and sang songs no one knew the correct lyrics to and Ryan couldn’t stop smiling the whole night, all rosy cheeks and laughter. He didn’t drink much; a few sips and then he gave the rest of his drink to Brendon. He didn’t need alcohol to make himself feel fuzzy and light. 

Ryan remembered when Brendon was beside him, each of them with an arm slung over the shoulder of the other. Intertwined. If one let go they would both fall. 

He remembered the closeness. The feeling of Brendon’s arm around his shoulder, his own arm tight on Brendon’s waist. The curve of his spine had been pronounced beneath Ryan’s touch and he remembered the heat in his cheeks. It shouldn’t have been such a strange feeling. 

He and Brendon were never far away from each other. They slept within five feet every night. They would patch each other up when they were wounded. Ryan had been the one to hold a cloth to Brendon’s eyebrow for an hour before it stopped bleeding. He had practically been sitting in Brendon’s lap then. 

So why was the sensation of his arm, tight around Brendon’s waist, and Brendon’s on his shoulder causing his face to feel so hot? Perhaps it was the alcohol. Most likely. 

They were still at camp. The last night before they would pack up to leave. Leave France. Onto a boat and get the hell out of dodge.

Large tents were set up, men wandering in and out. It was barely outside a small town in France, just over a grassy hill that some men tumbled down in a drunken state. There were a few lights on in the minuscule French village and, in the distance, Ryan could make out the slope of roofs and the distinct glow of windows.

No one seemed to worry about waking the sleepy, little town. They made all the noise they could. 

“Cheers to the new world,” someone had shouted. What was his name? Brent or something. Wilson? Ryan couldn’t remember. He said, louder, “Cheers! Cheers!”

And Ryan and Brendon had chanted along like all the others.

That night was a blur of shouting and cheering and Ryan swore some men wept tears of joy. He didn’t do any of the above. After chanting ‘cheers’ several times to satisfy Brendon’s need to be one with the crowd, the two had slunk off to a gathering of large rocks where they sat and watched men celebrate. They were going home after all. A lot to be happy about. 

“Look at ‘em.” Ryan pointed down to the sea of bodies with an accusing finger, jumping and hugging and laughing. 

Brendon was beside him, head resting back on the rock. He was already half asleep. He hummed out a response, the first notes to a song he liked, and he started singing it more, murmuring the words beneath his breath in a low key. 

“Idiots.” Brendon laughed as he said it and Ryan laughed with him out of courtesy. Although, he couldn’t find himself thinking they looked very stupid. Just happy. 

Brendon had started singing again. 

Ryan listened intently and Brendon, knowing he was being heard, sang louder. The other men were too far away to hear it, so he didn’t pretend he wasn’t trying. He made it obvious he was trying to sound alright and he did. To Ryan, he sounded really alright. Good, even. Great felt a stretch but Ryan smiled to himself and slouched back against the rock. 

“Sinatra can sing,” Ryan said over Brendon's singing because he recognized the song. 

Brendon let the verse fizzle out, nodding. Ryan missed his voice. “He can.”

“You sound a lot like him,” Ryan continued but it wasn’t true. He only thought that it sounded like a compliment and Brendon was watching him expectantly for feedback. Brendon sounded better than Sinatra. 

Brendon didn’t seem very pleased and he pursed his lips. 

“You think—once you get back—you’ll try to sing like Sinatra?” Ryan asked him. 

Brendon shrugged. “Sinatra’s pretty good. I don’t think I could ever do that.”

“Oh. Sounds good though.” Ryan repeated the lines slowly, forming the syllables and attempting to half sing. “ _Within my heart. I know I will never start_.” 

Brendon was smiling again, lopsided. “Oh, that was great. You sound just like him.”

Ryan snorted. 

A moment of silence passed between the pair with the background noise of men chanting wildly. Celebrating the night and the morning that would come. Brendon purred out the last few lines in a falsetto. It was incredible how high his voice could go. Ryan listened to it in awe. 

_“To smile again. Until I smile at you.”_

Ryan didn’t tell him, but it sounded great. 

A bottle crashed somewhere down the slope and the sound rang in Ryan’s ears. Men shouted at each other and it ended in laughter and a rough embrace. 

“Happy, aren’t they?” Ryan asked and turned to look at Brendon. 

Brendon’s head was pressed back into the rock and his black hair was messy as it hung over his forehead. His eyes were closed and he nodded barely, repeating, “Real happy.”

“It’s over then.” Ryan went back to watching them bounce around. He blinked slowly and something about the words didn’t feel right on his tongue. “It’s over.”

Brendon sat up a smidge, craning his neck away from the rock to look at the sea of men below them. He sounded bitter. “Guess so.”

“Get to see the family again.” Ryan looked to his side again at Brendon who was still focused on the men below. He swallowed, the realization of it starting to sink a little deeper into his bones. “We get to go home.”

Brendon nodded mechanically. He turned then and looked at Ryan. Surveyed him up and down, as if trying to determine what Ryan wanted him to say. Big black eyes, eyebrows furrowed. “I guess so.” 

“I bet Z’ll start crying or something when she sees me.” Ryan chuckled awkwardly and he rung out his hands. “I’ll make fun of her for being such a baby. Crying over me.”

Brendon didn’t take those big eyes away. He asked, “Isn’t that what girls are supposed to do? _Cry_ or something?”

Ryan paused. He wished he hadn’t brought up his girlfriend. Shouldn’t have done that when he was with Brendon. Always felt guilty about it when he did. Though, if he felt guilty for Z or for Brendon, he really didn’t know. 

There was quiet for a second before Brendon continued on, the most interested he had been all night, “Will she? Cry? You think so?”

Ryan glanced to his side, still fiddling with his own hands.

Brendon stared. “You _hope_ so?”

“Yeah…” Ryan wet his lips. That sounded like the best response. He _hoped_ so.

“And if she doesn’t?” Brendon asked. 

Ryan stopped fidgeting and gaped at him. 

Brendon blinked a few times, sniffed, and wiped at his nose with the back of his sleeve. “If Z doesn’t cry. Doesn’t hug you. Doesn’t care at all. What’ll you do then?”

Ryan frowned; fixed his eyes downward to his lap where he placed his hands. They were quivering and he blamed it on his buzz. “I'm just saying that she _might_ cry. Hell, I don’t know." He shrugged. "Maybe she’ll laugh at me.”

“What if she doesn’t care at all that you’re back?” Brendon wasn’t looking at him anymore, eyes trained on all the men below them. Ants from such a distance. Nothing but happy, drunk ants. “What if she doesn’t give a damn?”

Ryan stared blankly at Brendon's profile. He hoped. “She’s my girlfriend. She will.”

Brendon surveyed him over. Those glazed over, black eyes. “But if she doesn’t.” 

On the train back to America, away from that tiny French town with all the lights where Ryan and Brendon sang, the eyes Brendon fixed on Ryan were the same. Those black, glassy eyes. Pretty eyes. 

Ryan stared at Brendon sitting on the train across from him. Brendon looked more tired since the night when they drank and chanted. It had only been a week, at most, but he looked as though it had been years. Years and years since he last smiled. 

Ryan held his breath for a second, waiting expectantly for an answer that Brendon didn’t return. Brendon didn’t remove his eyes from Ryan’s expectant frown. Dared him to ask it again.

“Think it’d be nice,” Ryan tried to initiate a conversation once more. “A parade. Fun maybe, y’know. I think it’d be nice. Don't you think so?”

Brendon blinked lethargically. He turned his head and looked back out the window. Hummed out, “I don’t really want a parade, Ryan.”

That was enough to make Ryan’s grimace deepen, all hope at a smile wiped off his face, and he glowered instead, shifting down into his seat and looking out of the window as well. 

The world was passing by too fast for him to stay focused on one thing for too long. Fast-paced grass blades in heavy hills that shot by as green streaks. Blurry trees and blurrier houses. A spec of red brick in the corner of his eyes. A brown and yellow tree. Green grass. Indistinct. Indistinguishable. He didn’t like it. 

Ryan, oddly, found himself missing the dreary thrum of marching. Like toy soldiers all in a line. He always found that odd, that kids collected toy soldiers. All those little green fellas; he couldn’t find the appeal. Just a bunch of still figurines. Couldn’t even move. A lot of good they’d be in battle. 

Ryan looked down at himself and his fingertips and the green of his uniform. He pulled at his tie as it suddenly felt tight and he needed to get it off. Picked at his buttons absently. 

“Can’t wait to take this thing off,” he said aloud.

Brendon moved his head around on his fist to see Ryan better and soot colored hair tilted to the side. Brendon’s hair was matted and he hadn’t stopped playing it through his hands so sweaty, misshapen curls hung over his forehead. Ryan kept having to distract his eyes. Distract his mind. 

“The uniform,” Ryan continued because Brendon hadn’t asked for an explanation. “Can’t wait to get out of it. Get into some nice clothes. Something soft. Maybe just a blanket. Think that’d be nice?”

He shouldn’t have asked that. 'Just a blanket'. _What the hell are you trying to insinuate, Ross?_

Brendon jerked his shoulders up in a half-hearted shrug. 

Ryan slacked partially. He hoped that meant Brendon hadn’t caught onto his subtle flirtation. If that's what it could be called. “What? That don’t appeal to you?”

“Guess not,” Brendon answered. “Guess I don’t get as excited about blankets as you do.”

Ryan couldn’t think of anything to say to that so he sat quietly, up straight, thumbing at his buttons. His coat felt tight and his tie was a noose and he wondered when he had started sweating. 

Maybe when he got home he could change into something nice. Something brightly colored because everything felt so monotone those days. Everything was green and he didn’t think he could handle much more of that. Green was such a sickly color. 

He could dress nice and he and Z could go out and do something together. Anything at all. Or maybe just stay home and eat dinner. Light a candle, trade kisses. Wouldn’t that be nice? Sit around a dinner table and pretend he had never left her. 

Or maybe the alternative. Maybe Ryan could ignore Z. Skip seeing her altogether and go somewhere else. Maybe he wouldn’t go home at all. He’d thought a lot about what he was going to do when he finally got home many times and still, none of it seemed the right thing. Brendon wasn’t much help with it either. 

Ryan had brought up going home constantly since the night they drank and cheered. And every time Brendon had found a way to avoid questioning. Like when they were on the boat back to America and Brendon and Ryan stood at the railing, gripping it in their hands, watching the thick blue water churn below them. 

Ryan wondered how deep it was. If he jumped off, how far he would fall into the open jaws of the ocean. Brendon had draped himself over the edge, white-knuckled, halfway to jumping off already. Ryan stood close to him in case he fell. 

“A day or two more of this—traveling—and we’re home free,” Ryan concluded, staring out over the blue that hung on for miles and miles of empty sea. He nodded with a sense of finality. 

And Brendon had promptly retched over the railing and into the blue expanse. 

Ryan remembered looking down, watching Brendon hurl, before he sighed. He hadn’t asked anymore about home on the boat ride. He really hadn’t asked about anything. Seemed like whenever Brendon tried to talk about any sort of future, he got sick all over himself. 

Ryan had let Brendon avoid the conversation on the boat but now that they were on the train—the final stretch—he wasn’t going to let his friend evade questioning any longer. 

The ocean had been deep and inky blue but the only color in the train car was green. 

Ryan thought about green things and the little toy soldiers marched across his vision. Perhaps instead of going home to Z—perhaps instead of running away—he could go down to town and he could purchase himself some toy soldiers. Buy a whole collection of them and name them according to men he knew and men he didn’t remember and men he wished he could forget. 

“It’s coming up soon. Vegas,” Ryan surmised loudly, trying to clear his mind of the little green men. He tilted his head and watched for Brendon’s reaction. Wondered if he would vomit on the train too. That would certainly spark a conversation.

Brendon looked over, black eyes colorless. He didn’t say any actual words, simply let out a high pitched hum from his sealed lips. 

Ryan paused at the sound and thought similarly of times when the two walked together over uneven landscapes, heavy boots clunking and the only sound louder than men’s heavy breathing and swears were Brendon’s whistles. He sang, Brendon. Booming and open and some of the guys complained about it. But when you had a voice that nice, it wasn’t a hassle. Ryan liked his singing and somehow, he missed it. 

“Just an hour maybe, if that.”

Brendon nodded at Ryan’s words. The final stretch. The last chance to talk. Another soft hum. Ryan wished he would just break out into song. He didn’t care who on the train heard. There weren’t too many others at that point. They had all mostly exited the train. Not too many stops left. They were nearing Las Vegas. Quicker and quicker. Ryan couldn’t tell if the tremor that ran through his drumming fingertips was excitement or fear. 

Most likely, by the way his heart hammered against his chest, it was fear. 

Brendon sat so still he looked just like a toy soldier.

“You thinking about it?” Ryan asked and Brendon made a face like he didn’t understand. “Home?”

Brendon’s eyes flashed with the word and he shrugged. “Guess so.”

His voice was quiet and it meant to Ryan that Brendon _had_ been thinking about home. Remembering that place. A house, maybe not a home. It was obvious they weren’t fond memories. 

“I am,” Ryan said.

Brendon rolled his eyes. Bored. “I know you are. You won’t stop bringing it up.”

“There isn’t much else to talk about,” Ryan mumbled, feeling a bit dejected. “It’s the only thing on my mind.”

“Thinking about your girl?” Brendon asked and there was something in his voice Ryan couldn’t place. He looked at his eyes for any insight but, for once, he couldn’t read the emotion in them. 

“Yeah,” Ryan supplied. “Excited to go home.”

“To be with her.” Brendon pursed his lips. “How romantic.”

“I think I’m a pretty stand up guy.”

Brendon laughed. “There are a couple of girls in Nancy that beg to differ.”

Ryan forced out a laugh but he wished Brendon hadn’t brought that up. All the guys hung around with the French girls in those towns. Getting it where they could. Ryan wasn’t one of those men though. He really _was_ a stand up guy. Those girls… They didn’t really interest him. 

But he couldn’t let the other men know that. Never. And he couldn’t pull the ‘I’ve gotta be faithful’ card. Guys never bought that card. And so he lied. Lied and lied. Shared stories with the guys about their different conquests but he didn’t care. Didn't tell the truth. He wished Brendon hadn’t brought it up. He really wished he hadn’t. Because there were several reasons Ryan never actually got with those girls. One was Z. And the other? The other was sitting across from him on a train to Las Vegas. But no. Ryan didn’t like boys. And he certainly didn’t like Brendon. 

“You’re one to talk,” Ryan returned. 

Brendon was also a victim of the French girls in Nancy. They were all over him. But of course they were. Ryan admitted it himself. If he liked boys, Brendon was a boy he could like. And if Ryan was willing to like him? Girls most certainly were. They fawned over him day and night with those full lips and glazed black eyes and feminine features. Everyone had it bad for Brendon Urie. 

And by the looks of it, Brendon had really liked them too. 

Ryan recalled a time when Brendon had wandered back to camp one night, everything dark and Ryan had been up on watch. It was by the light of a lantern next to him that he saw the purple and blue marks all the way up Brendon's neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. Brendon hadn't been able to wipe that cheeky grin off his face. The handiwork of one of those Frenchies. 

There was an uncomfortable feeling in Ryan's stomach at the memory and he shifted in his seat. 

“And I bet you—You’re excited about home, huh?” Ryan tried desperately to change the subject. Tried to get some answers. 

Brendon’s smirk was quick to drown away. There was a pause before he said, rather brazenly, “Don’t know if I’m going back, actually.”

Ryan’s eyebrows raised to his russet-colored hairline and he tilted his head forward in interest, begging with no words for the story to continue. 

Brendon obliged, though it was reluctant, and said, “I think maybe I need a break. Do some traveling or something.”

“Oh, you haven’t done enough traveling? French girls weren’t pretty enough for Brendon Urie?” There was a bit of a bite to his voice but Brendon ignored that question. Pretended that he hadn’t heard it. 

“I don’t really mean traveling to go somewhere,” Brendon carried on, “Maybe I can just go for the sake of going.”

“Doesn’t sound like a lot of fun to me,” Ryan said because it didn’t. “Just… walking along the beaten path with a stick and a checkered sack over your shoulder? Boring. What’s the point of that?”

“There isn’t a point," Brendon said. "That’s what I’m getting at.”

“Then what’re you planning on doing?” Ryan asked.

Brendon thought about it. “I figure I’ll walk ‘till I find a place worth stopping.”

“Why not go home then?” Ryan asked. “Figure that’s as good a place as any.”

Brendon once again ignored the question, answering with one of his own, “Why are you so excited to go home then? What makes you think it’s gonna be so great?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like there’s anywhere else to be.” Ryan beat at the table with his pointer finger. Scratched the wood with his nail when the pounding beat didn’t satisfy him. That didn’t feel quite like the right thing to say. “I got people there. People waiting for me. Z’s waiting. You know that”

“Oh, bullshit," Brendon scoffed. "Z doesn’t even know you’re alive, Ryan. That girl isn’t waiting for jack shit.”

Ryan snapped his head up from the table. Okay, so maybe he and Z hadn’t talked the entire time he’d been deployed but that didn’t matter. She was still waiting for him. She had to be. But fine. He would humor Brendon. Just for the sake of a last chance. “Okay, sure. Let’s say she’s not. Let’s say they all think I’m dead. Maybe I don’t wanna go home then either. Maybe I wanna travel too.”

Brendon snorted. “Yeah. Sure you do.”

“I could travel if I wanted,” Ryan protested, folding his arms. 

“Sure you could,” Brendon amended and Ryan didn’t miss the way a smirk started to toy with his lips. Ryan could wear him down eventually. He bet he could. He could make Brendon Urie smile again. 

“I could go anywhere I wanted," Ryan said. "I could get off this train with you at the next stop. I wouldn’t even know what it was but I’d be alright to do it.” Brendon’s eyebrows raised a little and Ryan hit the table firmly with the palm of his hand. “I could if I wanted. I could.”

“Could you?” Brendon asked.

“Without a doubt I could.”

“Why don’t you then?” Brendon challenged. Again the look in his eyes was one that Ryan couldn’t place. “Get off at the next stop. You and me, and we just walk to Nowhere.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Ryan asked and he narrowed his eyes though a smile was surfacing. His heart was beating unevenly. “Walking off to Nowhere, you and me. You’d love it if I went off on a whim. A death wish, maybe. A death whim, how about that?”

“Sounds like fun to me.”

Brendon laughed and Ryan ducked his head, feeling the simper stretch across his face. Plain to see. 

“No, I can’t,” Ryan voiced after a minute or two, the smile softening, and Brendon pursed his lips and nodded. He wasn’t surprised but it was obvious that Brendon was less than pleased with the realization. “I can’t. Z would hate me. She wouldn’t let me.”

Brendon pulled an incredulous expression. “Did she let you go to war?”

“No.”

“So clearly you don’t do everything your lady tells you to.” Brendon’s eyes sought Ryan’s. He raised a brow. “How old are you now, George?”

Ryan didn’t like the name and he twitched in his seat, trying to get comfortable. “Twenty-four.”

“You’re an old man, George Ross. Think about how old you are,” Brendon said. “Practically ancient.” 

“Only twenty-four,” Ryan argued meekly. 

“Yeah, and think about how many men we knew that didn’t make it to twenty.” Brendon’s black eyes were unfocused on Ryan’s face. “Think about that. You’re old as the hills, Ryan Ross.”

“We’re practically the same age,” Ryan protested. 

“Oh, yeah. Never said I was young,” Brendon responded matter-of-factly. “I’m halfway in the grave, I’m so old. Look at us, Ryan. Two old men on a train with nowhere worth going.”

Ryan kept his voice low. “I’m going home.”

“Right. Right.” Brendon nodded. “Course you are. Back to your dame who wouldn’t let you go to war and your dad you won’t tell me anything about. And what’s his name? Spencer, isn’t it? Seems like the whole world’s hanging around in Las Vegas, just biding their time until Ryan Ross can come back from his little expedition to Europe.”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it.” Ryan’s laugh had since died deep in his chest and throat and he felt like coughing. His lungs didn’t sit right in his chest and his stomach was churning uneasily. 

Brendon didn’t say anything, only shifted down unhappily into his shoulders, grimacing. Ryan wasn’t sure what he said that offended Brendon but he wished he could take it back. 

“Where do you think you’ll get off?” Ryan looked out the window at all that green. “If you’re really not going home. If you’re so set on going off on a death whim.”

“What state, you mean?” Brendon asked. 

“Yeah. Only an hour or so to Vegas, like I said. Probably less now.” Ryan stared at the hills in the distance. “I’m getting off there. I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“Right. Course you do," Brendon grunted. "Girlfriend. Dad. Friends. Sounds like a grand time.”

Ryan didn’t like how tired Brendon looked; how angry and reserved he was acting. It wasn’t the same as it had been. He missed the Brendon that laughed with him, tried petting stray dogs in a war zone, and sang high-pitched and unbroken.

“You could get off at Vegas with me. If you wanted to. Wouldn’t have to go home. Wouldn’t have to walk to Nowhere.” Ryan shouldn’t have been so excited about that prospect.

“I’m alright thanks.” Brendon turned out to the window, eyes flashing with each spurt of green across the landscape. Flicker flicker. “Not that desperate.”

Ryan would be lying if he said he wasn’t the slightest bit hurt. “So you’ll get off after that then? Somewhere after Las Vegas?”

“Yeah, sure.” Brendon sighed. “I’ll get off when the man at the front tells me I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“You’ll be on the train forever.”

“A long time definitely.”

Ryan nodded. “You got my address though. You could write to me about where you end up.”

Brendon laughed a hollow sound. “Yeah, I’ll write you a letter when I find Nowhere. ‘Here I am,’ it’ll say. ‘Look at me, Ryan Ross, I’m Nowhere’ and that’ll be the end. Sign it with a heart.”

Ryan chuckled in response. He didn’t get to say anything else to that. Didn’t get time to say what his letter back would be about because the voice was rough and screeching overhead. 

“Las Vegas. Watch your purse, watch your pockets. It’s Las Vegas.”

Ryan looked up at the train ceiling like it could help anything. Turned to the window for the final time and realized they had slowed nearly to a stop. It was darker outside, night nearly and a spread-out group of people clambered along outside the train station. Waiting. Watching. It came to a halt and Ryan sat there, feeling utterly stupid. 

Silence. 

“Your stop, isn’t it?” Brendon’s voice made Ryan jolt and he looked at the other boy with wide eyes. Brendon tilted his head, gesturing with a hand to the window that was no longer green. “Home.” 

“Yeah.” Ryan sounded breathless. 

“You getting off?” Brendon asked. “Or you hitching it to Nowhere with me?”

Ryan inhaled sharply. He didn’t know. 

“Las Vegas.” The voice came again. 

Ryan stood on instinct. “I gotta get off the train.”

Brendon nodded and he didn’t look upset. “Uh-huh. Girlfriend’s waiting.”

Ryan stood there between the table and his seat and he stared out the window at the bustling people and the darkness. Another man had exited the train and a girl went after him. Ryan didn’t recognize either from the ride and he wondered if they had been sitting nearby. If he had ignored them in favor of Brendon’s sullen eyes.

“I wonder if she’ll give a damn,” Brendon voiced and Ryan turned back. 

“Yeah.” He clambered away from the table. Chuckled nervously through a sore throat. “Me too.”

He pulled his hat from the seat and tucked it into his belt, grabbing up with his other hand for his bag. Brendon didn’t offer to help, only watched quietly as he did so.

Ryan slung the strap over his shoulder and he started to back away before stopping and staring at Brendon for a moment. Brendon was blinking up at him with those big black eyes, waiting, waiting. Goodbyes were painfully awkward. Ryan took a breath and then smiled. “Write me when you get to Nowhere, won’t you?” 

Brendon smiled too, dipping his head. “Yeah. Course I will.”

It didn’t sound like a promise and Ryan doubted he would ever get a letter from Brendon Urie from Nowhere. 

“I’ll be seeing you, Bren. Or writing you.”

“Yeah.” Brendon watched him. “Take care of yourself, Ryan.”

“When have I not?” he asked and Brendon laughed.

“Get off the train, Ryan,” he said and the tone was light. 

Ryan considered denying the request just for the sake of it. Just to prove that he never listened to Brendon Urie, but that’s probably what Brendon wanted. He and Brendon caught each other’s gaze for a second and he seriously considered dropping his bag. 

Ryan looked out the window at the people and the darkness and he needed to get off. Z would be waiting for him. Surely, she would be. Hopefully. And Spencer and his dad. They were all expecting him. He couldn’t disappoint. He always did; he couldn’t run off again. Ran off to war. 

He had to go home. It had been too long.

He let out a heavy sigh and fixed his bag strap. Loosened his tie some more and the train made a sound like it was going to start moving. Brendon looked down at the floor and he felt it too. He glanced back up. 

He really did look like someone Ryan could like. If he liked boys. What with his feminine features and that smile and that voice. God, if Ryan liked boys, he could fall for him. He could let Brendon Urie break his heart. _If_ he liked boys. If. Then Brendon Urie would be the boy he would like. 

“Bye, Ryan.” That meant go. 

“Bye, Bren.” And Ryan went.


	2. The Plants Aren't Alright

So he lied. Yes, that was true. But was he proud of it? A better question. And for the record, no. No, he wasn’t. 

Brendon hadn’t exactly _wanted_ to lie to Ryan. It wasn’t as though he sat there and thought _oh yes, the one close friend I have left? Lying to him? What a grand idea!_ But he didn’t very well want to tell Ryan what awaited him at home. Which was… 

An empty house. 

Brendon Urie stood there, unwavering, in the center of his apartment. Alone. 

It was uglier than he remembered it to be. He had asked a friend of his—the only one he had ever been close to, the only one who would ever miss him—Dallon Weekes, to take care of it and, of course, Dallon had been too caught up in other things to bother. He couldn’t blame Dallon for it though. The man was smart. Too smart for the war. And, besides, he had other things to do. More pressing matters to attend. Brendon hadn't really expected Dallon to care for his home. Or he shouldn’t have.

Dallon hadn't been over at all, it looked like. Not even to water his plants. So Brendon's vegetation was dead, hung over the sides of their pots in limp brown carcasses and dust spread over every piece of cluttered furniture still there. 

Brendon had sold most of it before he went off because, to be frank, he hadn’t thought he would ever come back. Not that he would ever tell anyone that. Especially not Ryan. That he really _had_ been off on a death whim. Not the kind Ryan was thinking of though. Not the one where he left the train to hitchhike to Nowhere. No. The war was his death whim. A desperate attempt to kill himself in a way that wasn’t suicide. 

He should probably call Dallon; tell him that he was home and well. That he wasn't dead. Despite how much he wanted to be. Not really. No. He wasn’t horny for death. He wasn’t. He just… wasn’t so excited about life either. At least in the war, he’d had something to do. Something to distract his brain. A sense of purpose. 

What was his purpose now? Trying to bring his plants back to life? Hardly felt heroic.

Maybe he should have taken Ryan up on his offer. Went back to Las Vegas with him. It was certainly better than Utah. Plain, boring, old Utah. He was glad no one had recognized him when he got off the train. Glad no one had rushed to his side and fawned and cooed over him as some other families had. 

But then there was that pit in his stomach because really, who would have come?

Ryan’s offer was becoming more and more enticing every moment that passed. Sure, it would have been awkward. Getting off a train in Las Vegas; a soldier without a home. That would have been painfully awkward. Everyone would look at him like… Oh, he couldn’t imagine how they would stare. 

And of course, then there was Ryan’s girlfriend, Elizabeth. Brendon didn’t want to have to meet her. He was sure she was probably nice. Almost certainly. Ryan seemed like the type who would date a nice girl. Someone who he could pour all his love and attention into. Someone he could fawn over, and ravish. He probably wrote love poems to her. 

Brendon scowled and dropped his bag heavily on the floorboards. It made a dull thunk as it hit and dust clouded from the floor to greet him. He coughed. Grand. This was all too grand. 

What to do. What to do. 

He should probably call Dallon. Really the only person in Utah that he was coming back for. He and Dallon hadn’t talked in… Wow, three years then, wasn’t it? Three goddamn years and Brendon hadn't gotten a single letter from Dallon. Not so much as a, hello, don't get shot. Granted, he hadn't gotten a letter from anyone. Dallon couldn't be blamed. Brendon kept reminding himself that Ryan didn’t get a single letter from Elizabeth either. And if he claimed she still loved him—even though there wasn't a lick of proof to support it—then he and Dallon must have been closer than he realized. 

So he probably owed Dallon at least one phone call. 

He fiddled with the dial on his phone, stuck his index finger in it, and for a while spun random numbers. He didn’t really _want_ to call Dallon. Didn’t really want to do much of anything except for sit on his floor and contemplate existence. He needed to go find a cigarette, something to smoke. Something to ease the thoughts that rattled around in his brain. Anything at all. 

He spun Dallon's number slowly—he was vaguely surprised he still remembered it—and rested the phone between his shoulder and his head. Listened to it hum into his ear with each ring. 

Dallon Weekes had never been quick to answer the phone; surely Brendon shouldn’t have to worry. Dallon wouldn’t answer and Brendon wouldn’t have to carry on a painfully fake conversation with him and pretend everything was alright. He needed to learn how to not lie. 

And okay, part of him knew he _should_ talk to Dallon. Should least let Dallon know he was alive. But the other part? Well, the other part just didn’t give a shit about anything. 

_Don’t answer, don’t answer._

“Hello?”

_Dammit._

Brendon stood there a second in dead silence. Of all the days Dallon Weekes decided to answer a phone. 

“Hello?” Dallon’s voice repeated. He sounded far away, pre-occupied probably. There was something different to his voice from when Brendon had last heard him. A different texture to it. How old was Dallon now? Thirty. Dallon was thirty. Jesus, he was old. Halfway in the grave already.

Brendon shook his head and swallowed before he let out a breathy cough. “Yeah. Hi, Dallon. Hey.”

“Sorry, who is this?” Dallon’s voice narrowed and Brendon was nearly positive that Dallon already knew, he just wanted to hear it out loud. 

“Brendon. Urie.” It didn’t need any more elaboration. Say it outright, the truth is the best story to tell. Perhaps not the most entertaining though. His name was Brendon Urie. That's just as simple as it was. 

“Brendon Urie, as I live and breathe.” There was humor in the voice that returned. “I saw the train pull up. All these guys just tumbling out. Didn’t see you though. I thought you were dead for sure, Brendon, I swear.”

Brendon made a small scoff in the back of his throat although his mind was reeling. Dallon was there? At the train station? Had Dallon been waiting on him? No. There was no way. He didn't care that much. No one did. He said, “Not yet. Sorry to disappoint.”

“No disappointment here, pal.” Dallon’s voice came through the receiver with a tone that Brendon couldn’t quite figure out the meaning behind. Was he upset at the prospect of death? The joke? Upset that Brendon was alive at all? 

Brendon didn’t quite know how to proceed. He didn’t expect to get this far in honesty; prayed he wouldn’t have to. So he stood there, tense, with Dallon on the other end, breathing his own concern into the phone. 

“Any reason in particular you called, Brendon?” Dallon finally broke the silence and Brendon could imagine a crease in his forehead. 

Maybe that meant he shouldn’t have called Dallon. Maybe Dallon wasn’t actually happy to hear from Brendon at all. Maybe he was waiting at the train station for someone else. Right. Probably. Brendon was stupid for assuming anyone missed him at all. Including Dallon. 

“Oh.” Brendon blinked a few times; tried to clear his thoughts. “Thought I should.”

“Okay.” Dallon seemed interested. “What for?”

“Just uh—” Brendon faltered. “Seemed the thing to do s'all.”

There was a beat or two where Brendon didn’t say anything. He thought of times similarly when he and Dallon had gone down to a bumpy creek behind the university and sat at the water’s edge. Felt like they could talk for hours. Time didn’t exist back then and there were no other people in the world aside from them. Dallon had never been a talker, really. Even then. Brendon had been the one to fill the silences between them but even though he was trying, the silence didn’t feel as comfortable as it once had. Didn’t feel as nice as the days at the creek edge.

“So uhm… how—” Dallon’s voice was much softer than what Brendon remembered. “How are you doing?”

“As well as expected, I guess.” Brendon tapped his index finger on the phone.

“Is that bad?” Dallon wanted to know and he sounded genuinely concerned.

“Ain’t good,” Brendon answered and he meant for there to be humor but his tone was flat. He made a small sound in the back of his throat. A cough. He didn’t want to talk about this. He really didn’t. He shouldn’t have called. 

“You calling to gossip about the war?” 

There was a joking tone and, while it made Brendon shift on his feet and lean himself a tad heavier on the wall, he appreciated that Dallon was trying not to make things awkward between the pair. Appreciated the attempt. 

Dallon didn’t give much time for Brendon to answer, the short silence enough to scare him into asking, “Aren't calling to gossip?”

Brendon dipped his head and he wished he could smile. “Nah. Not today.”

“Shame,” Dallon hummed. “Would've liked to hear the scandals you been getting into in all this time. Gotta be a scandal or something, right?”

Brendon flattened his lips to a line. “Or something for sure.”

He could tell from the quiet that followed that Dallon wasn’t pleased with that answer. 

That time he didn’t break the silence and Brendon finally had to be the one to have the courage to boldly ask, “You got work today, Dal?”

“I could skip it.” The ‘for you’ was implied. 

Brendon frowned thoughtfully. He appreciated the sentiment no matter how frail and meaningless. He thought about plans. What he could do with Dallon. Three years was a long time not to see anyone. Invite him to play cards, maybe for lunch. The thought of eating made him feel nauseous. 

He cleared his throat. “You still got that deck of cards?”

“Yeah, sure,” Dallon replied. 

“Bring ‘em over, huh?" Brendon suggested, hopeful to his own ears. "And we could play a round or two of Rook or something.”

There was a beat and he swore Dallon chuckled. “Yeah, sure, Brendon. Sounds alright to me.”

“See you when you get here then,” Brendon said.

Dallon waited a second before he returned gently, "See you."

Brendon hung up before Dallon could comment anything else. He stood there, hand pressed down on the phone for a beat, staring straight down at it. As if he thought it would start ringing again. His heart was thumping unevenly in his chest. The ring never came but still, he stood. The newfound hush felt far too loud. Like an absent cry in the small house, bouncing against the walls and ricocheting to the ceiling and back down. 

“And now—” He told the dusty, dying apartment. “We wait.” 

It took maybe an hour at most for Dallon to come knocking on his door and in that time Brendon had successfully thrown all his dead plants in the garbage and swept all the dust into one corner. It looked better, certainly. Still didn’t look like a house anyone had ever lived in before, but it really never had. 

Brendon never spent much time at home. At that tiny apartment in Clearfield. He was always doing something away. Like finding a new bar to try out, or someone else’s house. Or maybe a new alley. There weren’t a lot of options in Utah for someone with his preferences. Had to get creative.

Dallon’s knock on the door hadn’t changed in three years and Brendon wondered why that one tiny detail made him smile so broadly. The fact that at least some things never changed. 

Brendon hesitated only a second on the other side of the door, waiting. Dallon did his signature knock again. Two rough clicks with his knuckles and a full handed slap and Brendon knew exactly what that looked like. He had to laugh aloud picturing his lanky best friend—complete in his signature suit and slicked-back hair, pocket watch and all—knocking like a child even though he was supposed to be a man. 

“Hey!" Dallon's muffled voice came through the crack in the door. "Don’t laugh at me; I’m not even inside yet!” 

“Sorry, who is it?” Brendon called back, one hand braced on the doorknob, the other flush against the door with the rest of his body as he pressed his ear against the wood to listen to Dallon outside. 

“Dallon,” the voice called back. 

Brendon shook his head. “Sorry, sir; don’t think I know anyone by that name. Sounds like a real asshole though.” 

“You’re funny,” Dallon replied through the door. “Now c'mon. Let me in. I brought my cards.”

Brendon shook his head to himself but tugged the door open, a smile fresh on his face, just barely meeting the bottom of his shiny black eyes. Although those black eyes widened at the sight of his old friend in the doorframe. 

Dallon looked different. Really different actually.

He had cut his hair in the last three years, no longer slicking it back with gel and it hung loosely over his forehead, shorter on the sides. Dallon had his hands tucked into his pockets and he swayed back on his shoes. They were polished. 

Small age lines had grown beside his eyes. It made him squint when he smiled and Brendon wondered how that made him more attractive. He was very attractive, actually, now that Brendon was staring. Sure, Brendon always knew his best friend was good looking. What with those bright blue eyes of his. But with the new hair, fluffy and tan and his high waisted brown pants and checkered shirt—Well, he was nearly beautiful. 

Brendon's smile was retreating slowly although a quirk lingered on his lips. 

“Hey,” he said, looking Dallon up and down. He didn’t try to hide it. There was a lot to see.

Dallon grinned, obviously pleased he was being praised. He answered, smooth, “Hi there.”

Brendon lazily held a hand out for Dallon to shake. 

Dallon glanced at his hand and back up at Brendon's face. He raised a brow with a snort. “You stupid idiot.”

Brendon frowned. 

“Disappear for three years; you expect I’m gonna be alright with a handshake?” Dallon scoffed roughly. He took half a step forward and embraced Brendon tightly with both arms, patting him several times on the back. The embrace was tight. Brendon stiffened for half a second, arms loose at his side, before he let himself slack. He hugged back just as firmly. 

It seemed to have slipped his mind in three years how much taller Dallon was than him and his head rested a bit above Dallon’s chest and into his neck. He smelled clean and Brendon had to wonder how disgusting he himself smelled. He had washed. Several times, actually, in hopes to rid himself of the stench of sweat and blood and dirt. Still, though, he felt like it clung to him. 

Dallon—obviously noting the height difference as well—pulled back, a hand resting on Brendon’s waist. He tilted his head and his short hair shifted to the side. He asked through a grin, “Did you shrink?” 

Brendon let out a mock laugh, pushing out of Dallon’s hold. “Ha, yes. Very funny. How’s the weather up there?”

“Always sunny,” Dallon answered. 

“You look different,” Brendon noted and stepped back from the door so Dallon could walk inside. He watched Dallon’s backside without shame as he went. “Hair cut?”

“That and old age,” Dallon hummed. He turned back. “What? You don’t like it?”

“Didn’t say that.” Brendon raised an eyebrow, smirk quick to form. “What? You’re thirty now?”

“Twenty-nine," Dallon corrected. "I’ve still got a few months ‘till I’m thirty.”

“Jesus, you’re old,” Brendon teased and he folded his arms over his chest. 

“Right about that, ” Dallon replied and he looked around the apartment like he had never seen it before. 

“It looks clean around here.” He glanced to Brendon from the corner of his eyes. “You hire a maid?”

Brendon narrowed his eyes, saying, “Did it an hour ago because _someone_ —”

“Oh right.” Dallon laughed at himself. “ _I’m_ the maid.”

Brendon chuckled a chorus. “It’s alright you didn’t though. Didn’t matter. I didn’t really think I was coming back, anyhow.”

That was probably the wrong thing to say and Dallon glanced over at him, eyebrows furrowing instantly, a frown quick to draw itself over his lips. He asked quickly, “Didn’t think you were coming back? Where else would you go?”

Brendon wasn’t about to admit to his best friend that he hadn’t planned to survive the war so he had to think quickly. Had to come up with yet another lie. Think. Think. He said, “There was a guy. Offered to take me home with him after.”

Dallon’s eyebrows raised and he swayed forward, hands still in pockets. His voice faltered when he asked, “A guy?”

Brendon nodded. 

“Does he have a name?” Dallon wanted to know.

“Ryan…" Brendon swallowed. "Ross.”

Dallon nodded and formed the words out on his tongue. “Ryan _Ross._ And was he—? Did you two—?”

“No.” Brendon shook his head hurriedly. “He has a dame back home so we didn't—Yeah, no. Never.”

Dallon puckered his lips. He turned and looked up at the ceiling. As if he didn’t know what a ceiling was supposed to look like. He sounded out, “But he invited you back to—where exactly did you say?”

Brendon hadn't said but he didn't correct Dallon, simply returning, “Las Vegas.”

Dallon whistled. “If I were you, I would've gone. Vegas is good for people like us y'know.”

“Well, I didn’t wanna leave you behind and—” Brendon started and Dallon cut him off with a hard laugh. 

“Bull!" Dallon pointed a finger and his grin was evil. "You had it bad for the military man, didn’t you?”

“I am also a military man, I’ll have you know—” Brendon tried.

“Was he attractive though?” Dallon was smiling too big and it was annoying Brendon. “C'mon. Was he?”

“He was uh—” Brendon thought about Ryan Ross sitting across from him on a train, big whiskey-colored eyes fixed on him. The way he stretched out across the bench, slender form and all. When he had loosened his tie and popped the first few buttons of his coat. Like he was inviting Brendon or something. Brendon wet his lips. “He was alright.”

“But he had a girlfriend?” Dallon said.

“Yeah." Brendon flexed his fingers. "Back home.”

“So it never would have worked,” Dallon tried, faking understanding.

Brendon nodded vigorously. “Never.”

And it wouldn't have. Ryan Ross and him? A straight soldier and a Utah faggot? Never. Brendon wasn't under the illusion that a relationship between them could have ever happened. Not that he would ever get to know. Ryan was gone. Brendon wasn't going to get him back.

“But you wanted it to,” Dallon cooed. 

Brendon rolled his eyes. “You’re too much of a romantic, Dallon. Calm down. It wasn’t like I was in _love_ with him or anything. He’s with a dame. And I… Well, you know me. Hell, me and him barely spent any time together.”

Now that was a bald-faced lie. Brendon hadn’t been apart from Ryan for three years. Every day, every night. But he couldn’t very well tell Dallon that. That would raise suspicion. All being said, though, he needed to learn how to be more honest. Lying to Ryan about Nowhere and lying to Dallon about Ryan. He needed to get out of that habit. It was a nasty one.

“Right," Dallon amended. "But you almost ditched me for Vegas. For him. _Very_ telling.”

Brendon gave him a look, a warning. 

“Just kidding.” Dallon raised his hands from his pockets in surrender. “Sorry. Touchy.”

“But uh, anyway—but _you_ —” Brendon gestured with a hand—the one not wrapped around his middle—to Dallon, wanting to change the subject from Ryan Ross and Nowhere. “You’re looking different these days. You dressing up for a reason? Trying to impress someone?”

Brendon made a suggestive look and Dallon rolled his eyes in response, saying, “Don’t flatter yourself. This is just how I dress.” 

“Suits not working out for you anymore?” Brendon wondered. 

“No.” Dallon fixed his hands back into his pockets. 

“How’s the school feel about that?” Brendon asked and he went to sit at the small bar towards the edge of the kitchen. He was tired of standing. Dallon turned slowly to watch him sit on a stool. 

“Don’t know.” Dallon shrugged, taking a few strides over. “Got fired about a year and a half ago.”

Brendon’s jaw dropped, eyes going wide, and he watched as Dallon came over to stand across from him on the other side of the bar. Dallon folded his arms over the counter and bent over it. He peered up to see that Brendon's expression hadn't changed and he snorted. 

“Why you got that look on your face?” he asked. 

Brendon gaped, opening and closing his mouth as he tried to rid his expression of the shock. “Nothing it’s just—I thought teaching was your dream. You loved it.”

“Yeah.” Dallon shrugged. “I did for a while. And I still tutor on the sides. Go in every now and again to give a lecture if they’ll have me. More often than not a teacher sneaks me in. I’ve still got friends there. It’s not all bad.”

Brendon couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the idea of Dallon not being a teacher anymore. It was what he loved to do. It was what he had always loved. How could he give it up? Brendon asked, “Why—why’d you get fired? You’re so… I can’t think of a single rule you’ve ever broken.”

Dallon smiled cheekily. “Well, I can think of one.” 

Brendon made an odd face but then the realization dawned. He leaned forward on the bar, saying in a hushed voice like he was worried someone would hear him through the walls, “ _No_. They found out that you’re—?”

Dallon nodded and his smile couldn’t seem to leave his face. 

“How the hell did they find out?” Brendon interrogated, shock radiating from his person. He couldn't hide it. “You’re the most careful person I know. Hell, I didn’t even expect it when I first met you. And I’m good at telling.”

“Well, I’m getting less cautious in my old age,” Dallon joked. “Slipped my mind to lock up the office.”

“The office?” Brendon repeated, confused, and Dallon gave him a knowing look. Brendon’s eyes bugged impossibly big from their sockets. “With a _student_ , Dallon! Jesus!” 

Dallon’s own eyes grew large and he reared back, crying out, “No! Never! I am not—I will _never_ be that sloppy. God, Brendon. No. It was another teacher, Ian Crawford. He taught calculus.”

Brendon’s jaw was fully on the floor. “Wow, you really _are_ getting risky. Holy Hell. The stories you have. Makes my life seem boring.”

“Please," Dallon said. "Can’t make war boring.”

Brendon glanced up and Dallon quickly shut his mouth on the subject, taking the hint that it wasn’t appreciated. Dallon dipped his head in an apology and Brendon went on, hopeful to keep up the current topic, “How come you weren’t arrested?”

“Like I said.” Dallon smiled a bit. “I’ve got friends there.”

“Well, if you’ve got so many friends, how come you were fired?” Brendon wondered. “If they were willing to keep it a secret?”

“Guess I quit, really,” Dallon said absently. “But ‘getting fired’ sounds so much more enthralling. A real hook to that.”

Brendon laughed, shaking his head. “Jesus, Dal.”

“Besides, I had a better job offer,” Dallon went on. “And it was a perfect opportunity. Hell, maybe I _wanted_ to get caught.”

That piqued Brendon’s interest and he tilted his head. “What sorta offer?”

Dallon’s blue eyes sparkled and Brendon’s own gleamed with the promise of excitement. Oh, the stories that Dallon Weekes had from the last three years. The things Brendon had missed. Dallon spoke in a low octave like he was telling a secret only Brendon was allowed to know, “The Church.”

Brendon’s face fell. He repeated, a bitter taste in his mouth, “The _church_?”

Dallon nodded proudly as he repeated, “The Church.”

“What the hell do you do?” Brendon scoffed. “Preach?”

Dallon laughed. “No. I work the confessional.”

Brendon just stared at him. There was a pause. “You're not Catholic.”

Dallon started laughing again and Brendon was starting to feel left out of the joke. He said, “No, Brendon. Not that sort of church. Not _a_ church. _The_ Church.”

Brendon couldn’t stop staring at him. He wasn't following. 

“Wait—” Dallon paused, his laughter subsiding. “How long were you gone again?”

“Three years." Brendon rested his head in a hand. "You think you would have noticed.”

“Well, that would explain why you’re looking at me like I have two heads.” Dallon sat up straighter, ruffling through his hair with one hand, screwing it up before smoothing it out. “It only got built two years ago. The Church is a club downtown.”

Brendon made a face. “You hate clubs.”

“A homosexual club, Brendon.”

“Yeah, you’d like that kind.” 

That time they both laughed. 

“Wait,” Brendon started, curiosity quick to work its way through him once more. “Since when do you want to work at a club? What do you do there?”

“Sorta a mediator, I guess," Dallon explained. "Right-hand man sorta scenario. With the guy who owns it, Jon Walker.”

“Jon Walker?” Brendon repeated. The name was familiar. A man he had met once or twice in the halls of a real church. A man with glazed eyes and spiffy suits with a pretty girl on his arm. “Really? He owns a gay club? He’s been married to that girl, Cassie or something for like half a decade. He’s not gay is he? She’s a good gal. Hate to think he’s lying to her.”

“No. He’s not gay," Dallon said. "That’s why he needs a mediator; someone who is.” He hooked a thumb towards himself. “And tada. I’m your token homo.”

Brendon scoffed, shaking his head. “You—Wow. That’s… wow, Dal.”

“I’m pretty proud of it.” He looked like he was. 

“Wait, so when I asked if you had work today… did you actually?” Brendon asked. 

“Well, club opens at eight every night," Dallon rambled on to him. "But I was just supposed to be looking over some plans; we were talking about an extension, Jon and I. It’s a pretty nice place, I gotta tell you. Got a straight bar upstairs, gay one in the basement. And Jon’s such an upstanding guy. Cops don’t have a clue about it.”

“Wow,” Brendon breathed. “You’re really… you’re doing things then, aren’t you?”

“What sort of things you mean?” Dallon quirked a playful eyebrow and Brendon shook his head. 

“No, not like—" Brendon waved a hand. "I just mean you’re doing stuff with your life. You’re co-owning a club and you’re not wearing suits and you have friends and apparently, you hook up in your office with other teachers.”

“Hey, it was just that once,” Dallon protested urgently. 

“I’m just saying. You were here making a life and I was—” Brendon trailed off. He didn't have a good way to finish that sentence. 

“You were getting shot at, Brendon," Dallon tried. "I hardly feel like I’m the interesting one.”

“Still.” Brendon sighed. “I mean… I was out there for three years, Dal. Every day just… fighting the good fight or whatever you wanna say it was. And now it’s just… it’s over?”

Dallon cast his eyes down. 

“It’s like…" Brendon exhaled. The weight of reality was pinning him down. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

Dallon shrugged his shoulders pitifully. It was obvious he didn't have a clue either. Brendon hadn't expected him to. “You know I could help you out if you need money or something.”

“I don’t need money.” Brendon rubbed at his temple with his fingers. “I need to... _do_ something.”

“Brendon, buddy, you’ve only been back a day," Dallon said and there was humor in his voice. "I don’t think you need to worry so much.” 

Brendon looked up at him and Dallon fixed him with a dazzling smile. 

“Hey," Dallon tried. "Why don’t you come on down to The Church with me tonight, huh? Get you back in the swing of things. How d'you like the sound of that?”

Brendon glanced down but a small, appreciative grin was working at his lips. “Sounds good, Dal. Thanks.”

“And in the meantime—” Dallon reached into his pocket and tugged out a raggedy looking pack. He shook it in front of Brendon. “Let’s play some cards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that. I actually wrote a second chapter. Who knows, there might even be a third!


	3. A Man at a Kid's Piano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is "Nothing Matters But You" by The Young Veins ft. Z-Berg.  
> Give it a listen! It's pretty nice.

Ryan Ross marched off the train, head high for a moment, before his feet hit the ground. Ground he knew. He looked up and recognized the station. Tall buildings all clumped together and a flat surface of asphalt that ran out before him. Street lamps that craned up into the sky, skinny with spindly arms that curled over the cars lined on the street. There were people around him. An abundance of people he never knew. 

He walked along, the rough texture of the sidewalk muting his footfalls. The air was humid and it wrapped him in an all too itchy blanket of moisture. So wet feeling it was as if he was drowning on dry land. Perhaps, though, it wasn’t the air that made him feel that way. Maybe it was just him.

It made his uniform all the tighter and he tried desperately to loosen his collar as he fumbled along the street, away from the train station and away from France.

There was a surprising amount of people, actually, mingling around him. Men wrapped other men tightly in embraces and laughed together, clapping each other roughly on the back. All of the women were crying in one form or another. Whether tears of joy or melancholy, Ryan wasn’t too sure. He didn’t hang around them long enough to figure it out. He didn’t stop to find Z in the crowd to cry and hug on him. He knew she wasn’t there. 

Z didn’t even know he was back. Didn’t even know he was _coming_ back. Maybe she thought he was dead. Surely not. Hopefully not. Hopefully, Z knew that he was alive, or at least thought he was. Otherwise, it would be awkward when a ghost appeared at her door. 

Working his way through the crowded street, Ryan caught the gaze of a woman toward the back of the crowd. A taller girl in a nice blue dress with black buttons and she held her coat at her side in a clenched fist. She was craning her neck like she was trying to find someone and Ryan stopped a second, watching her search. She couldn’t see over the many heads and she let out a shaky breath, turning his way. 

His feet had come to a halt across the street from her. People that came toward the train broke apart from their group to walk around him like the red sea dividing in half. 

Swarm, swarm, break, swarm again. 

The woman didn’t seem very surprised to find him staring at her. They were close enough to see each other's expressions plainly but not close enough to be anything other than strangers. He blinked at her. Maybe she knew she was beautiful.

“Who’re you looking for?” he asked her.

“My husband, Brent Wilson,” she answered without hesitation. Her eyes were wide and green. “Coming back from—”

She paused and looked him up and down. Took note of his uniform and his horribly loosened collar. He looked a mess, he was positive. Disturbed curls from rubbing at them on the train. Loosened collar and a few buttons of his jacket undone. He stared at her. Yes. He knew he looked bad. 

She didn’t say anything regarding his appearance, only looked him over slowly and then up again at his face. Too hopeful for her own good. She asked, “Do you know him?”

Ryan shook his head. Maybe he had heard the name before; maybe in a buzzed blur in France when men cheered, but it didn’t matter enough to him to stand out in memory. He wished he paid attention more. He replied, “Sorry.”

She exhaled shakily. “It’s alright.”

There was a moment of quiet and Ryan said, “Keep looking. Plenty a’guys are still on the train. Might just be taking longer to get his bag. Maybe he lost something.”

The woman nodded and smiled tentatively. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem.” Ryan didn’t wait to see if she would say anything else before he turned heel and sauntered off, trying to flatten his hair down with a hand as he went. 

He listened to the way the train creaked and moved, the screeching painful to listen to, and he took the hand from his hair to cover his ears instead. God, he was sure he looked insane. Hands in his hair one minute, on his ears the next. Maybe he was. He didn’t know. But he supposed that insane people never knew whether they were or not. 

Heavy clouds of smoke billowed up and into the air, dying the blue sky grey, and the wheels of the train started turning. Ryan didn’t look back to watch it push itself away, taking promises of a place called Nowhere with it. 

He stopped a few strides later and turned, a hand still pressed hard against the side of his head. The train was gone and the woman was still waiting. Brent Wilson wasn’t getting off that train. 

Maybe he went to Nowhere too.

The slow pace Ryan set was weighed down further by the pack which hung on his shoulder. Grey clouds of steam from the train had risen up from the train, and the sky turned dark at a snail’s pace. The sun was lazily sinking down, doing its best to run from the pollution. Ryan wondered how fast he would have to walk to make it home before sunset. Before the grey clouds took over the whole city. Too fast, that was for sure. He didn’t want to run home, didn’t want to rush it. All he wanted was to take a nice walk. 

Take a nice, slow trod through town. See what had changed. Anything to keep him from seeing Z. He was too scared to know if she had missed him or not. He had been excited about seeing her at first, but Brendon’s persistent worry for home had put a serious damper on his mood. 

Perhaps Brendon was right. Z didn’t miss him.

Had she ever missed him? He didn’t remember all that much of a fuss when he walked out the door of that shotgun house on a spread out street in Las Vegas three years ago. All he remembered, in fact, were some nervously darting looks as she flattened his collar again and again. She hadn’t asked him to stay. Because she knew it was pointless, perhaps. Ryan didn’t know if he was glad she hadn’t begged him not to leave. The guilt might have been too much. 

He hadn’t felt any guilt the day he left. Not about leaving Z, at least. And oddly enough, he hadn't worried much about if he was going to make it back or not. Death hadn’t seemed so daunting in that moment. Death was just life, wasn’t it? Inevitable. 

“My shirt’s fine,” he had told Z before he left and she had blinked up at him for a second through thick eyelashes. It had taken a moment before she stepped back from him, placing her dulled gaze on the floor. He watched her, tilting his head to see her eyes. He almost asked if she was okay, but what a silly question that would have been. 

He had never liked that question. ‘Are you okay?’ Always felt empty, that question. Always got the same answer too. ‘I’m alright’ when they never were. That was a lying question. And Ryan Ross didn’t fancy himself a liar. So he stood there, head cocked awkwardly and watched Z try and get a grip of herself. 

He tried his best not to make either of them lie.

Z didn’t cry then. Although Z didn’t cry any time. Not out in the open; of course not. Ryan couldn’t think of a time that he had actually seen tears coming out of that girl’s eyes. Sure, twice maybe, he had seen her exit another room with red-rimmed bags beneath her eyes and an awkward hitch in her step but not real tears. Her smile was painted on but in the wake of his departure, it felt as though the canvass was breaking. 

He had tried to think of something to say. _I’ll be back, don’t worry; it’ll be fine, you’ll be okay; we’ll be alright in the end_. 

He couldn’t seem to think of a single honest phrase to tell her. 

“You can write me,” he had said after a few seconds of quivering silence.

She chuckled and blinked up at him. Still no tears, only glazed eyes and flickering glances. Like Brendon’s on the train. She said, “I’m not a very good writer, you know.”

He snorted but didn’t address her writing abilities, no matter how crude they were. “I don’t need much. Just a hello every now and then; something to make me believe you didn’t forget about me.”

He held out an arm for her which she graciously accepted and he held her against his side in a hug. Ryan always thought he was on the shorter side for a man but he was still taller than Z. Just tall enough to be able to put his chin on top of her hair comfortably. She leaned into the contact; closed her eyes against the crook of his neck. 

If Ryan were a fool—which he claimed he wasn’t—he would have professed to feeling the flattened collar of his shirt and his neck growing wet. But Ryan wasn’t a fool and he knew that Z didn’t cry. So that couldn’t have been the case. 

“Just a hello every now and then?” she had confirmed quietly. Her voice sounded tense to his ears. “That’s all you want?”

“It’s all I need,” he answered.

It really had been all he needed. Just a word. Just a note to know she still loved him. He felt bad that he was leaving, guilty that he was abandoning her. Part of him wanted to stop then and there, drop his bags and pick her up. Though if he did that, the guilt would have eaten him alive. So he would go. It was final. 

And Z didn’t write him. Not once. 

Brendon said that meant she didn’t care, and all the guys said it meant she didn’t love him either. Said he was stupid, waiting up for a girl that didn’t call on him. A girlfriend, no less. Not even his wife. Pathetic. 

Ryan Ross was a pathetic man.

He thought as he walked home, away from the train station, that maybe he should have made a better attempt to make Z understand him. Understand why he ran off to war in the first place. But it probably wouldn’t have been worth the effort. There were a lot of things about him he was sure Z wouldn’t ever understand. War was one of them.

It wasn’t a long walk home. Or it shouldn’t have been. Half an hour at most before he would see his girl again. The first time they would talk in three years. How would that go over? 

Would she hug him? Wrap him up tight and refuse to let him go? Would she give a damn at all? Or maybe Brendon’s suspicions were correct and Z would shrug him off like an insect. Crush him with her heels. No. She wouldn’t do that. Z cared. Surely. Perhaps Z really would cry for him. Would it make her a good person if she did? Would it make Ryan any better? He didn’t know.

Ryan had maybe advanced a quarter of a mile up the street before he recognized a section of the neighborhood. Sure, some buildings were different but that part of the walk—that part he knew. 

They had done construction in the last three years—a lot it looked like—and down the street he could make out an almost finished strip, everything lit up brilliantly as the sun sunk in the grey covered the sky. It would be so beautiful when it was finished. 

He wondered if Z had been down to the strip in the last three years. If nothing else, only to admire those shiny lights and big buildings. Three years was a long time. Surely she’d seen it. 

A small part of him hoped she hadn’t gone down there. Just so he could show it to her himself instead. 

_Had_ she written him? Written him beautiful, poetic things and they had just gotten lost in the post? Maybe they had been handed to the wrong man. Not a lot of George Ryan Ross III’s though. So probably not. It upset him. That she didn’t write. But it did bring up the obvious, why didn’t _he_ ever write _her_? 

And the answer to that? He didn’t know. 

Blatantly, he didn’t. 

He had drafted a letter to Elizabeth Anne Berg once. 

He thought back to that time when he was sitting in the dirt, cross-legged, the sun drowning away across the horizon. Brendon had been sitting across from him, watching him scrawl away with a broken pencil. There wasn’t an eraser so every word he thought was wrong, he crossed out and started again. The paper was covered in crooked lead lines. 

Ryan was taking his time fiddling with his pencil, leaned back into a slope of dirt. The page he wrote on was ratty and crumpled. Though it wouldn’t be wrong to say that dirt he sat on was ratty either. Or Ryan. No, it also wouldn't have been wrong to call Ryan Ross ratty. 

He had his jacket pulled up around him and his poncho was bunched up beneath him. It didn’t really matter though, if he got dirty or not. It never really mattered, a thing like that.

His hair was sweaty and dirt was caked through certain strands which hung over his forehead and clung to his wet skin. So, no, it wasn’t wrong to call Ryan ratty. But, that might have been considered rude in some circles and most people tend to lead away from things that can be considered rude. 

Brendon was watching him intently as he wrote. He didn’t look so nice either; his green jacket opened up so his collarbone and the beginnings of a smooth chest were displayed for all to see. Ryan wasn’t complaining. Brendon had cut a pair of boots—ones that weren’t originally his—into sandals and he picked at them aimlessly. 

“You writing a letter?” Brendon had called out across the few feet that divided him and Ryan. 

“Of sorts,” Ryan returned. 

He didn’t look up at Brendon, only kept scratching cursive loops and stains made of lead across his paper. He took a second to place his hand down on the page, smoothing it out in hopes of flattening it before he started drumming it with his pencil, willing the ideas to spill from the pencil like blood if he beat it hard enough. 

Brendon waited for elaboration and when Ryan didn’t provide, he asked, “To who?”

For a split second—Ryan didn’t know why—he considered lying. _My mother. My sister._ But he didn’t have either of those. So he glanced up—just a moment—before focusing back on the paper. 

“My girl.”

Brendon blinked. “You got a girl?”

He didn’t sound surprised. Didn’t sound jealous, or irritated. He sounded tired. Like he should have expected it.

Ryan hummed, spinning the pencil through his fingertips and examining the point of lead at the tip, obviously disgruntled by the fact that it was at a dull point. He wanted it sharper. Sharp enough to stab. “Uh-huh.”

Brendon waited for a second to ask, “She got a name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“That’s pretty,” Brendon said.

“She is.”

“Never seen you get a letter from her,” Brendon observed and he rolled his sleeve down to wipe at his nose. “Never seen _you_ write one either.”

Ryan paused, pencil hovering over the page. “Well, there’s always gotta be a first time.”

“You been gone—What? Eight months?” Brendon puckered his lips. “Awful long time to wait for a letter.”

Ryan shifted his shoulders in discomfort. “Yeah. Guess it is.”

There was a beat or two of quiet, stilted silence, and Ryan went back to thinking about writing. None of the words seemed to sound right. He looked down at the page, his chicken scratch font, and stabbed his dull pencil tip onto the page. The lead splintered under its force, sending shards of grey and broken creativity across the page, smearing it with dull specs of black. He scowled, brushing off the lead fragments. He knew it wasn’t sharp enough.

“That was—” Brendon watched Ryan smudge the lead with his thumb. “ _Dramatic_.”

“It didn’t sound right,” was all Ryan could grumble back. 

“Here.” Brendon leaned forward, offering his hand out. “Let me read it.”

Ryan raised his head, eyebrows with it. “You wanna read the letter I’m writing to my girl?”

Brendon shrugged. “I’m not too bad a writer. Maybe I could fix it.”

Ryan hesitated a beat before handing it over. “For the record, I’m not a bad writer either. Just an off day.”

Ryan regretted handing the letter over the moment that Brendon’s serious face cracked into a broad grin when he read it. Brendon looked attractive when he smiled, sure. It was a good look on him, happiness. But not at Ryan’s expense. 

“Oh wow.” Brendon scanned it with his eyes. Sarcasm dripped from his words like poison and Ryan scowled. “This… this is _beautiful_ , Ryan, really.”

Ryan debated on whether to hit him or not. He shifted down onto his poncho, folding his arms, and glared like a child. “I told you it didn’t sound right.” 

“ _Every dream I dream, I dream about you_ ,” Brendon read aloud with a bit of finesse, higher in pitch than was necessary. “ _Loving you is all I wanna do / I'm so wrapped up that nothing can untie me / Nothing matters but you._ What the hell is this? A song?”

“A poem,” Ryan snapped back. 

“Poem, song; same thing aren’t they?” Brendon sounded legitimately curious. 

“No,” Ryan corrected and he attempted retrieving the letter. Brendon held it out of his reach. “A poem doesn’t have to rhyme; it doesn’t have a chorus. Poems have stanzas. It’s just… It’s words. _Hopefully_ , well-written words. ”

“And a song?” Brendon prompted, leaning back into one hand on the dirt, the letter held above his head lazily. 

“Has a tune. Has a chorus, a beat. Songs have verses. And it doesn’t sound good if it doesn’t rhyme.” Ryan glowered when he couldn’t get his paper back. He gave up, falling back into place on his poncho. Brendon shifted forward in return. 

“This rhymes. So it’s a song.” Brendon looked back at the paper. “And you say ‘nothing matters but you’ a lot. That’s your chorus right there.” 

Ryan sighed and Brendon looked up at him. His eyes, big and dark, caught Ryan’s stare. 

The way the dying light of the sun hit them, they looked jet black. Brendon Urie had demon eyes and it looked like he knew it. Knew how evil he was, and was more than willing to take advantage of his power. 

Brendon was the first to look away, back to the paper, and Ryan felt like suddenly all the heat had left his body. Evaporated straight from him and up into the cool air of the evening. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. 

“Yeah. Yeah.” Brendon nodded like he had reached an epiphany. He shifted, holding the paper with two hands, looking determined. “I can sing this.”

“You can sing?” Ryan had asked, mildly astounded. 

Brendon shrugged. Modest. “A bit.”

He started to sing it then. That was the first time Ryan had heard Brendon Urie sing. Certainly not the last. 

It was low at first, the way he sang it, and it was obvious Brendon didn’t have a proper tune in mind. He stopped two words in, adjusted his pace and his seating arrangement, before trying—a little louder—to sing it again.

It wasn’t necessarily what Ryan had in mind if his words were being sung. They never had been before. And hearing it out loud—especially with Brendon’s buttery voice—it almost made him want to write a song. Something slower than what Brendon was doing, less vibrato and less passion, but a song nonetheless. Brendon liked to put on a show, that was for certain. He could sing though. And no matter how different the words sounded being sung, Ryan much preferred them from Brendon’s clean mouth than his dirty paper. 

It was then, picturing the way that Brendon’s pink lips formed around certain syllables when he sang that Ryan stopped walking down the street. Back in reality. A humid day in Las Vegas, 1945. The air told him it was fall. When had it grown so late?

He came to a slow stop just to heave a breath out. It had to have been a mile now. He was nearing home, surely. He looked up and around and came to notice a building on the corner, pressed between two others. Buildings touching like they loved one another. He stopped out front and stared up, wide-eyed. He didn’t recognize that building. 

Maybe he had walked too far; gone onto the wrong street. 

He looked around, suddenly concerned that he had made a mistake in his travel up the street. But, no, he knew that diner. And he knew those street signs. That intersection down the road, he was familiar. He knew this street and he knew all the ones north, south, east, and west of it. So it was the building that was new. He stared at its pretty blue siding and its white shutters. What a warm, lovely little place. He adjusted his pack, the ugly brown thing it was, on his shoulder. 

He didn’t match.

The door had a bell overhead that sang out when he entered. 

“We close in about a half-hour,” a voice warned as Ryan came through the door. “So you might wanna shop quick.”

Ryan didn’t say anything back, only nodded quietly to himself like the voice could see him and walked through the building slowly, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. 

He thought of mucky terrains and the same boots sinking in mud. He practically hovered over the clean wood of the toy shop he entered. As if he was levitating. 

That didn’t feel right. Something about this was wrong. 

There was a piano over toward the edge of the shop, small and worn from use, but Ryan slowed to a stop as he passed. Stood there in front of it for a moment before slowly lowering his bag to the ground and pulling himself into the seat. Hovered his fingers over the keys. He stopped again. Took his hands off and slipped his jacket from around his shoulders. The heat of the shop rushed past him and his body lowered its temperature, the cool air hitting him like it was a fresh breeze. A gentle exhale slipped past his lips. 

He sat at the keys and undid his tie, finally, and slipped it over his head, the noose falling from his neck and into his waiting hands below. There was a sense of nakedness all of a sudden with his jacket gone and his tie missing from around his throat. He didn’t look so much like a soldier anymore. Just a boy with a lopsided collar and messy hair at a piano he didn’t know how to play. 

The keys felt cool beneath his burning fingertips and he took a moment just to smooth his fingers over the yellow tinted surface of the keys. Kind to the touch. He had never actually learned to play piano. He could read music at an elementary level and he had slapped the instrument a time or two to elicit off key cries but nothing more. 

His mother had taught him to play the piano. A long, long time ago. Said it was a beautiful skill for a young man to have. He should feel lucky he knew how. But he didn’t remember, and as he sat there at the piano with his fingers hovering, he cursed the universe for it. 

He knew that Brendon Urie could play the piano. Said he used to take lessons. Ryan knew that must have cost his parents a pretty penny. Same as it did with his mother. That made him deduce quickly that Brendon Urie was rich. Although, Brendon later informed him—casually—that it was actually a friend of his that taught him. So he didn’t even have to pay. Dylan or something. Dylan Weekend, maybe? Ryan couldn’t remember. He hadn’t cared too much about Brendon’s piano owning buddies back in—Wherever it was that Brendon came from. 

Ryan tried his best to embody Brendon Urie as he sat at the piano. What would Brendon play? 

_Sinatra can sing._

Ryan readied himself to perform a masterpiece. He only got three notes in before the same voice from earlier interrupted. 

“Kid, don’t touch that damn piano! You’ll break the thing!”

Ryan jumped up from the seat and turned swiftly to see a man, several years older than him, coming from around the aisle of toys. 

“Sorry,” Ryan said hurriedly, looking between the man and the piano. “I didn’t mean to—”

The man had started looking Ryan up and down like a hawk. “How old are you?”

Ryan was taken aback and he paused, raising his eyebrows. He answered, “Twenty-four." 

The store owner laughed. “A man then. Thought you were one of those damn kids again; come to break my girl.”

“Th-the piano you mean?” Ryan looked over his shoulder at the instrument his jacket was slung over. 

The man didn’t answer directly, only asking, “What you doin’ at a kid’s piano, sir?” 

Ryan chuckled, slightly apprehensive. He couldn’t think of a good enough reason. Wasn’t as though he had ever played before. What was the difference between a kid’s piano and a man’s piano? Was there such a thing? 

“Been ages since I’ve even seen one s’all," he said. "Couldn’t resist.”

The man looked at Ryan like he was an idiot, and maybe he was. He asked, “Haven’t got pianos where you come from?”

Ryan nearly laughed. He thought about Brendon Urie. No. No pianos in a war. Ryan wondered how this man didn’t see his uniform. It occurred to him then that he had shucked it off onto the piano. He was just a man now. And—as a man—he shook his head. 

“Shame that,” the store owner hummed and he turned to walk away. 

Ryan stood, confused a second and he called out, “So… I can play it then?”

“God no. Those ivories don’t need any more torturing from your sloppy hands,” the man spat back and he disappeared further into the store. 

Ryan felt utterly stupid as the man walked away. 

“You play?” Ryan asked and he followed after the man despite better judgment. But he wasn’t all that eager to see Z. Not just yet. The anticipation was wearing heavy on his heart and he didn’t know if the weight was one he could manage to carry. Just to set it down for a moment, that’s all he needed. 

“Tune or two,” the man answered.

“I’ve never played before. Not really. I used to but… It’s been too long; I can’t remember,” Ryan said honestly, feeling the need to divulge the information. The man had led him up the counter and was scooting to be behind it. He sat down heavily on a stool.

“What you doin’ trying then?” The man snorted and wiped at his stubble with a hand; scratched at his cheek. 

“A friend had one. Always said he loved it.” Ryan shrugged. “Just thought I’d give it a whirl. For the heck of it.”

“What’s your friend’s name?” The man started rifling through his drawers. Ryan craned his neck to try and get a better look at what the man was doing but he couldn’t quite see enough. 

“Brendon,” he said.

The man looked up. Stared Ryan straight on and then surveyed him all over. “Your name?”

“Ryan.”

“No last name?”

“Ross,” Ryan answered as the man nodded. 

“Pete,” he said and that was a name. “Wentz.”

‘Pete’ glanced up and Ryan saw that he had brown eyes. Felt like everyone had brown eyes those days. Z had them. He did. Pete did. Brendon. But Brendon's were more black.

Pete coughed and swayed back in his chair like he was going to say something that required a lowered voice. “Your friend dead?”

“No, no,” Ryan was quick to answer. Not Brendon anyway. “Just gone.”

“Oh. _Gone_.”

Pete went back to whatever task he had been partaking in previously, opening drawers and closing them. Collecting money and putting it into a jar on the counter. Ryan watched him work before deciding it was a less than enthralling ordeal. He swiveled around slowly. His boots let out dull thunks as he tread over the floorboards. There were several short isles in the store and he ran his hands over them. 

Looking at the different toys that occupied the shelves, it seemed as though the world was growing smaller. Shrinking and shrinking until there was nothing left but a toy store in Las Vegas with a used piano in the corner. 

A teddy-bear glared down at him through the same dark eyes Brendon and Z had. It was a creepy looking creature and Ryan swallowed before dipping his head to it. Felt the polite thing to do. Couldn't judge a teddy bear by how creepy it looked. 

“You looking for something specific?” Pete’s voice rose up again. 

Ryan pondered. “No, I guess not.”

“Piano’s only a couple hundred,” Pete said.

Ryan turned sharply to the sound of the voice. “I could buy the piano?” 

“Not you, no," Pete said in a hack. "You can’t play the damn thing. But if your buddy can? Yeah, I could sell the piano to someone who can play. Someone who’d care about her. None of those kids care. They just smack her around for fun. Girl could use some proper loving.”

Ryan’s shoulders drooped. “No then. Sorry.”

He couldn’t buy the piano. Brendon was gone and there was no one else who could play it that he knew. So he would let it collect more dust. Maybe come back when he knew how to play. 

“We close in ten,” Pete reminded the moment that Ryan started to browse further. “So unless there’s something specific you can think of—” 

Ryan paused. Thought on it a moment. He perked up slightly. “You got any of those army men?”

Pete sounded confused. “ _Army men_? Like those little green fellas?”

“Yeah, yeah. Those green fellas.” Ryan smiled. He turned the corner to see the man at the counter again, staring back at him incredulously. Ryan’s eagerness was obvious on his features. “You got any of those? I’ll buy those.” 

“Ten cents for a pack of ‘em. Twenty or so soldiers in the lot,” Pete said, already shifting off his stool to go find them. 

Ryan frowned, thoughtful looking. “I don’t need a pack. Just one.”

Pete stopped. He looked up and stared at Ryan. “You just want _one_ army man?”

“Only need one,” Ryan answered.

“What’re you gonna do with a single army man?” 

Pete had a point. Couldn’t fight a war with one army man. But that was all Ryan wanted. Just the one little green gentleman. Ryan couldn’t think of a better answer to give than a shrug.

“You gotta buy a pack.” Pete was staring at him.

“Oh.” Ryan nodded and glanced away. “Guess I’m alright then.”

He didn’t wait for Pete to say anything else as he started back toward the piano where he had left his things, shuffling to gather them into his arms. His noose of a tie, his constricting jacket, and the uncomfortable weight of his ugly brown bag. He looked back at the older man. 

“Thanks for your time, though. I appreciate it, sir. Mr. Wentz. Really, I do. It’s a nice shop you got here.” Ryan gestured with his head. “And a beautiful piano.” 

Ryan was already half out the door when Pete caught him by the shoulder. 

He jolted in surprise and turned to see Pete holding his hand out to him and Ryan looked at his palm and then back up. In Pete’s hand stood a little green soldier, helmet and uniform intact, saluting up at Ryan with a tiny hand. Ryan widened his eyes.

“Take it then if you want it.” Pete nodded toward the figure. “Take it. Just one man. Just the one.”

Ryan barely hesitated. Snatched it before the store owner could change his mind. He stared down at the figure resting in his palm before balling his fist around it. He shook the fist. 

“Thank you.” He beamed. “ _Thank you_.”

“Eh. Just one man. The store’s closed anyway.” Pete gestured for Ryan to leave. “You have a nice night now, Ross.”

“You too Mr. Wentz," Ryan said. "Thank you again.”

Pete nodded. He frowned, hesitating on what he wanted to say. Then, quieter, “And sorry about your friend.”

Ryan stopped at the step and almost corrected him. Almost said ‘my friend’s not dead’ but he didn’t. Instead, he pressed on a flat smile and nodded. “Thank you for that too.”

He gripped at the toy in his hand. One of the many army men he would be naming, he knew that. Each little green fellow he would be collecting. Memories of the friends he had lost. As still and waxy as the figures he carried. 

He opened up his palm, everything around him tinted pink from the orange light the sky cast down. Brought his eyes to the toy soldier in his hand he would be calling Brendon Urie. At least until he got a proper letter from Nowhere. 

The army man sent him up a frozen salute and Ryan wondered for a minute when he had ever seen Brendon salute him. Brendon hadn’t ever, not really. A mock wag of the fingers every now and again to make Ryan laugh. Never—not once—had Brendon looked Ryan in the eyes, placed his hand to his forehead and legitimately saluted him. And he never would, either. It was a little too late for Ryan to want a salute from Brendon Urie. 

Ryan sighed, smiled, and sauntered down the steps, pack and jacket slung over his shoulder, the green gentleman called Brendon clenched in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for kind words in the comments! I really appreciate it! :)


	4. Brown or Blue Eyes

Apparently, Brendon wasn’t as attractive as he thought he was. 

“I don’t look that bad,” he said from the side of his mouth as Dallon went through his dresser. 

“Not _that_ bad,” Dallon agreed as he continued rustling through empty drawers. “But not very good either.”

Dallon had been on his search to find Brendon something suitable to wear in public—or at least something suitable for a gay bar—for close to an hour. It had begun when, at six thirty that evening, Dallon asked Brendon to change. Brendon had been irritated, to say the least, because he wasn't under the impression he looked anything less than presentable. 

His uniform was a sign of honor, of what he had been doing for the past three years of his life. Without it, how was anyone supposed to know? He would be ordinary. 

“Why is it that you don’t have a single thing to wear in this place?” Dallon asked loudly. He sounded as if he was starting to get mad at the realization. He had gone through every drawer at least twice. 

“Well I just—” Brendon shrugged apathetically.

He had taken off his jacket and hung it over his shoulder so it draped down his back and over his spine. Although, his green slacks and cream button-up were still on, complete with his beige tie. He hated the colors. God, did he hate them. He looked like all those flyers, all those campaigns. All those ‘I Want You’s. Though Brendon couldn’t say he wanted _this_. Looking like the poster boy for the war.

“Well _what_ , Brendon?” Dallon asked, shutting the drawer he was sifting through aggressively. His eyebrows had drawn together and his mouth shifted into a scowl. “Did you think you were gonna wear that uniform forever?”

Brendon focused his eyes on the floor and tapped the toes of his boot against the wood. He knew he wouldn’t get time to answer—and he was right—because Dallon instantly let out again.

“Where are your _clothes_? Where did you put them? Don’t tell me you don’t remember. You had about ten shirts; where’ve they gone? That blue one!” he cheered and Brendon looked up with a start. “The one that goes with that black vest—Do you remember it?”

Brendon remembered an all too itchy blue shirt he sweat through during church and a black vest that was missing a button at the bottom that he never bothered to replace. 

“Where is that?” Dallon lamented. “You _love_ that shirt.” 

Brendon gazed up at the taller man to find Dallon with his hands on his hips, growling. Dallon had rolled up the sleeves of his checkered shirt and the collar was flipped on one side. Brendon couldn’t help but crack a smile at the image of his disheveled friend. Dallon Weekes at twenty-nine was certainly more entertaining than he had been at twenty-six. Some things got better with age. 

“Why are you smiling at me?” Dallon appeared to be on the verge of hysterics. Over something like a blue shirt. Not even his own shirt, either. Dallon Weekes was going to have a break because they couldn’t find _Brendon's_ blue shirt. Granted, they couldn’t find _any_ shirts. 

Brendon rolled his eyes, chuckling to himself. “I’m smiling because you’re being ridiculous.” 

“Someone stole your clothes while you were gone—" Dallon replied urgently. "You don’t seem to care, and _I’m_ being ridiculous?”

Brendon squeezed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Dallon, no. No one broke into my house.” 

Dallon's hands were on his hips. “There’s no other explanation I can think of.”

“Dallon _no_ ,” Brendon stressed, looking at him incredulously. “That’s—”

“What else could have happened? Because it’s entirely possible that—”

“I threw them out!” Brendon hadn’t meant to raise his voice and he slumped almost instantly, staring at Dallon. Dallon, whose face fell and shoulders dropped, everything about his body growing slack. When Brendon spoke again, it was calmer, an apology for shouting when he hadn't meant to, “I threw them out.”

“Threw them _out_?” Dallon repeated, his forehead creasing into several lines, and Brendon thought that suddenly he looked too old. “Why did you—? Why would you have—?”

Brendon folded his arms in a pitiful shrug. “Before I left. I didn’t think I’d have any more use for them. Didn’t ever feel like I was gonna come back.”

He stubbed his boot again at the floorboards and they squeaked under the pressure. He shouldn't have said that. Gave too much away. Told the punchline before he even finished the joke. 

Dallon wouldn’t stop looking at him. Those caring eyes. Jesus, anything but those. That was exactly what he had been dreading. Exactly why he should have gone off on his own after he returned. Ran away from Clearfield like a bat out of Hell. A soldier out of war. Because people _cared_ about him. And he didn’t know what to do with that information. 

Ryan had wanted them to. People. Always, it seemed like, Ryan wanted their praise. Brendon had never understood that. Never knew why Ryan would want someone to shower him with love and affection. _He_ ’d never wanted someone to write him when he was in France. Sure, maybe if Dallon had written him something along the lines of ‘good luck out there not getting bombed,’ he would have been alright. Would have been flattered, or touched, in some way. But a letter declaring endless love like Ryan tried writing to his girlfriend? Hardly the thing he desired. 

Brendon thought about Ryan writing that letter. Thought about singing it back to Ryan and how fixed Ryan’s eyes had been on him. Whenever he sang, how Ryan had stared. 

Even when they were marching and all Brendon would let out was a simple hum, Ryan would be observing him. Like he was some sort of specimen that _needed_ to be watched. Brendon missed Ryan’s whiskey eyes as he stared back at Dallon’s expectant baby blues. 

“Brendon.” Dallon’s voice was so meek.

How could he do that? Make his voice sound so kind, so smooth? He was too much of a threat, that boy. What with those satiny blue eyes and that soft voice of his. If Dallon ever wanted to hurt someone—utterly destroy them—he could do it. Invite them in, wrap them up in that voice and those eyes, and strike down when they least expected it. If Dallon Weekes wanted to, he could break a heart. Break one so bad it could never be fixed. If he wanted to. 

Brendon was only glad Dallon didn’t want to break his. 

“You didn’t think you were gonna come back?” Dallon asked and Brendon wondered why he sounded so sad.

“I told you," Brendon replied. "I thought about going with that boy to Vegas.” 

Brendon didn’t know why he didn’t want to say Ryan’s name out loud again. Reasons he couldn’t exactly explain, even to himself. Ryan didn't have a name. He was just a soldier. Just a boy from Vegas Brendon happened to know. Didn't mean a thing.

“You threw your clothes out long before you knew Ryan Ross,” Dallon reminded him and he had started tipping his head to the side, brows angling up. Brendon hated he remembered the name. 

He let out a strained chuckle, trying to force a joke. “You think about how that sounds?” 

“Don’t try and be funny,” Dallon said.

“It’s not a big deal, Dal," Brendon stressed. It wasn't. It didn't have to be. Dallon shouldn't have made it one. "You know how many guys die in war. Your dad went down in ‘17. You _know_.”

Now that was a jab. That, Brendon shouldn’t have done. Bring up a man he didn’t know. A man Dallon didn’t want to be mentioned, because Dallon hadn’t known him either. 

“Men don’t go to war to die, Brendon,” Dallon hissed.

“Then why the hell do they go?” Brendon snapped and his voice was raising again. Luckily, Dallon didn’t seem offended or cross in the slightest with the change. He only kept staring at Brendon with those big blue eyes, head tipped to the side; oh so caring. 

“I don’t know, Brendon,” Dallon said. He drummed fingers on his sides. “I’m not the one that went.”

It hit Brendon roughly then, that Dallon didn’t know a thing about war. Didn’t know about that dirt, the sweat; didn’t know about the sticky crimson of blood through his hair. Dallon Weekes didn’t know a thing. But then it made Brendon wonder, even if he did partake, did he really know what a war was? Even the men that fought, like Ryan Ross and he, did they know anything about war? Did anyone? 

“Take my word for it then,” Brendon bit back. “Some men go to war to die.”

Dallon stood in silence for a moment, simply blinking at him through dark eyelashes and light blue eyes. It took a moment for him to speak, the only sound in the room being the labored breaths parting Brendon’s lips as he tried to make sense of caring people. Dallon bobbed his head. “But not you, eh?”

Brendon started to open his mouth but paused, frowning. He shook his head. “What?”

“Not you.” Dallon stared him straight on. “You’re not dead. So, obviously, you didn’t go to war to die. If you did? If you really went to war to—" He broke off as though he didn't really want to say it out loud. "If you really went to kill yourself. Well… I think you’d be dead.”

Brendon didn’t know what to say. 

Dallon straightened back up and—just then realizing his collar was muddled—he fixed his shirt and scrubbed a hand through his tan hair to correct it. Without the gel he used to cake through it, the strands curled around his fingers and flopped back over his forehead like he had never corrected them. 

“C’mon,” his blue eyes and his caring voice said. “We’ll run by my place on the way there. Find something for you. No hassle, I swear.” 

He started toward the door without looking back. He knew Brendon would follow. And, sure enough, he did. 

Dallon lived only a short walk from both Brendon’s apartment and The Church which was unarguably to both of their benefits. Brendon felt like he had forgotten all about what Dallon’s house looked like. It was a joint house, one he shared with some woman that Brendon couldn’t remember the name of. Breeze maybe? What was it? Brendon wanted to hit himself for not knowing. 

Dallon had always lived right next to her, the only thing dividing their lives one brick wall. Brendon wondered how often the temptation arose to break it. 

It just so happened, unfortunately, that Breeze was at home. 

She was outside, bent over a bushel of small, purple flowers. Brendon took a second to ponder why she was watering plants at eight o’clock on a Tuesday night. But he supposed there was no better time to do it. The sun wasn’t gone yet, night hadn’t come. So really, she was right on time. 

She was watering them intently, dressed in a pair of overalls she rolled up to barely above her ankles. It was obvious they were a smidge too big for her and Brendon assumed they belonged to a man. A boyfriend? A husband? Had she gotten married in the last three years? 

“Hey, Breezy,” Dallon called as they approached the shared house, his hands once again slipping inside his pockets to hide. 

_Breezy_ right! Well, ‘Breeze’ had been close enough. Three years was a long time, Brendon should not have been held accountable for every name he no longer remembered. 

The woman was quick to snap her head up and—Oh, she was very pretty actually. Not Brendon’s type by any stretch. Mostly because she was, well… a _she_. Still though, he graced her with the benefit of a toothy smile at her appearance. 

She returned it but didn’t seem to care much about his presence. “Oh, Dallon, hi. How're you?” 

“I’m alright, thanks,” Dallon answered with ease, stopping short of their joint porch, standing on the path to his home, hands in pockets. “And you?”

As the two began to prattle on in meaningless greetings and formalities of neighbors, Brendon took a second to look down, survey over their yards. It was funny that from a distance it looked like one house but if you got up close, personal, it was more than obvious two different people lived there. 

The entire house was made of brick with a wooden porch branching off. There were two doors on the front. One was blue—Breezy’s. And the other was white. No one's guess as to who owned that door.

Dallon’s part of the house looked rather… ordinary by comparison. Like Brendon without his uniform. Looking at the house; you’d never guess the owner spent his nights at a club for homosexuals. You’d think he was a teacher still. Think he was a fine, upstanding member of society. The things people didn't know. It baffled Brendon. How much did he not know because he never bothered to look closer? 

Breezy’s path up to her blue door was paved, nice and clean, like she swept it. Dallon’s was of gravel and Brendon uncomfortably felt like his shoes sank in the pebbles. 

“And who’s your friend then?” Breezy asked, her eyes now directed to Brendon and he straightened up, realizing he was being called upon. 

“Sorry, rude of me not to get to this sooner," Dallon said while turning back at Brendon. He almost appeared proud but Brendon couldn't understand why. "Breezy, this is Brendon.” 

“Urie,” she added, nodding quickly as she stared at Brendon in her yard. “I know you. Can’t believe I didn’t remember. You look so different.”

“Yeah, well—” Brendon ducked his head. “I’ve been away.”

Dallon glanced over to his side, peering at Brendon in a new light. Up and down his blue eyes went, up and down. Trying to look closer, find out things Brendon didn't want him to figure out.

“I don’t know, Breezy,” Dallon hummed as he stared at Brendon. He shrugged. “Looks about the same to me.”

Brendon laughed, or he would have, had Dallon not been lying through his teeth. 

It was obvious he was trying to make Brendon feel better. Make him think he wasn’t changed by his time in Europe. Make him think it was all the same. The exact same as it had been. But didn’t Dallon understand? Brendon left to _make_ things different. 

Dallon said he looked the same when they both knew he didn’t. 

“Oh bull,” Breezy snapped and Brendon’s eyes went big. He didn’t know dames could say stuff like that. Dallon only smiled at her. “You know well as me how handsome he’s gotten. Look at those _lips_.”

So he was being flirted with. That’s what was happening. An interesting development to say the least. 

“Ha.” Brendon let out a sharp breath that he tried to play off as a flattered laugh. “Thanks, ma’am.”

“It’s Breezy.” She was smiling at him a bit too broadly for his liking. 

“Right." He nodded. "I’ll remember that.” 

Brendon had never been more grateful than when Dallon gestured for him to go inside. He wished Breezy a good night and when she asked, rather suspiciously, what Dallon and Brendon had planned (guess it wasn’t so ordinary for Dallon to bring home ‘handsome’ men to his house at eight on Tuesday nights. But it wasn’t any odder than her gardening), Dallon had informed her that they were going to a bar downtown and Brendon needed to spiff up for the occasion. She asked which one and Dallon named a place Brendon didn’t even think existed. 

When had Dallon Weekes become a liar?

“I take it she’s not gotten over her little crush on you,” Brendon murmured as he stepped into the threshold of the house, Dallon shutting the door behind him with a subtle click. 

Dallon laughed, pleased. “No, no, she has. She’s married now. A year or two. But she’s a flirt; can’t help it.”

“Gonna get that girl in trouble,” Brendon mused as he wandered further into the home. 

“Husband's a good guy,” Dallon told him, following behind. “I don’t think it will.”

“She ever ask why you haven't tied the knot yet?” Brendon wandered to the sitting room where a sofa and a lonely love-seat waited for him. He didn’t hesitate to place himself on the couch, lounging out precariously. Dallon started over as well but Brendon swung his legs up on the couch before Dallon could sit, smirking up at him. 

“Take off your shoes,” Dallon directed. “And she has.”

Even after Brendon had taken his shoes off, Dallon didn’t sit with him. He sat instead on the arm of the love-seat, his long legs managing to land neatly on the floor. 

“What’d you tell her?” Brendon asked. 

He watched as Dallon stretched, folding one leg over the other. He had remarkably long legs. Brendon wondered vaguely if that made him too tall. Maybe that’s why women didn’t pursue him further. Because he was too tall; they didn’t want to feel small beside him.

Brendon had never felt lesser when he was with Dallon, he realized, and he smiled at the thought as Dallon settled in.

“Said I was just waiting for the right gal,” Dallon explained, pulling his hands out of his pockets to rest them across his knees.

“And you told her she wasn’t it?” Brendon whistled. “Harsh, Dal.”

Dallon laughed well naturedly, raising his hands in defense. “She’s not my type.”

Brendon had to laugh too. It was funny. He waited for a few beats to ask, “Thought you wanted me to change?”

“I do.” Dallon nodded. 

Brendon blinked at him expectantly from his place thrown over the couch, hands tucked behind his head. 

He was so comfortable, he could fall asleep. He really could. Dallon’s couch was more comfortable than those seats on the train and certainly better than dirty ponchos in France. His eyelids drooped without thinking. 

“C’mon. You don’t need me to be your chaperone do you?” Dallon’s voice surfaced and Brendon’s eyes flickered open, focusing again. “You know my house, Bren. Just go to my room and pick out something you like.”

“No rush?” Brendon wanted to know. 

“Of course not. I’m not forcing you to do this.” Dallon thought for a second. “Though I do have to be there in half an hour and I might leave without you if you’re not done by then.”

Brendon snorted. “Sounds like a rush to me.”

He settled back into the couch and that time, he really almost did fall asleep. He could tell by the way his eyelids slid shut and his breathing went slow; the way his heart rate beat to a different tune—it was going to be the best sleep in three years. 

And Dallon Weekes had to hit him in the head with a cushion. 

“Ow,” Brendon groaned, sitting up and rubbing the side of his head. Not because it hurt—it didn’t—he just wanted to see the way Dallon’s eyes softened in apology.

“Get dressed,” Dallon said and a smile played on his lips. 

“Yes sir, yes sir,” Brendon answered in a tired song and slid off the couch to clamber up the stairs with a mock salute of his hand. 

Dallon’s bedroom was right at the top of the stairs. One of the two rooms on the second floor. A bedroom and a bathroom. Everything Brendon needed and more. He stepped over the threshold into Dallon’s bedroom and stood stationary in the center for a moment. Took a second to breathe it in.

Forbidden fruit, this room. 

He had been there before, sure, when Dallon was twenty-three and had first bought the place. When he had shown Brendon around with as much pride as a father showing off his new baby. 

It didn’t look much different from when Brendon had been there six years prior. A bland bed tucked into the corner with precisely made sheets and a dresser to the side of the room and a slender closet. Brendon went to it without hesitation, tugging it open. 

He wasn’t worried about playing around with Dallon’s things. He had been invited after all. 

Brendon was surprised to find a lack of suits in the closet. Not a single one. And they used to be all Dallon wore. Now there was only khakis and slacks, high waisted all of them. Checkered shirt after stupid checkered shirt. Well, at least Dallon kept up with the theme of only having one outfit. 

And he complained about Brendon wanting to wear his uniform. What a hypocrite. 

Brendon settled on one of the checkered shirts, the least ugly of them, which was blue and grey. Dark blue slacks that were obviously too long on him and with the high waist he was sure he looked a fool. He didn’t complain though, tucking in the shirt as best he could, and using one of Dallon’s belts that sat on the dresser. 

He wished there was a mirror somewhere. Or maybe he didn’t, he wasn’t sure. 

“I like it. Breezy was right. _Very_ handsome.”

Brendon flinched in surprise and turned to see Dallon leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded, left eyebrow cocked and his smile intact. He was looking Brendon up and down shamelessly. Payback for what Brendon had done when he’d first seen him. What was it about checkered shirts and slacks that were so alluring?

“Thanks,” Brendon replied, using his fingers to smooth the front of the shirt. “But your pants are massive on me. I look like a kid.”

Dallon shrugged, his blue eyes continuing their rounds of Brendon's body. “Not as much as you’d think. You can tuck the legs into your boots.”

“Because that won’t look stupid,” Brendon jeered and Dallon smiled even wider. 

Brendon took a second to look around again; he didn’t know when he would be graced again with Dallon Weekes’ bedroom. He would remind himself to come over more. Dallon had been so wonderful, he couldn’t imagine that they would stop talking again. Or he prayed they wouldn’t. 

“Why no mirrors?” Brendon asked, his eyes once again landing on Dallon. 

“Don’t need one.” Dallon didn’t have to think about it for long. “I always look good.”

Brendon laughed because he was sure Dallon wanted him to. He knew that wasn’t true though. He was sure Dallon thought the opposite. Why he would though, was less obvious. Dallon looked _good_. He should have known it.

“You gonna keep that on?” Dallon asked after the chuckles subsided. 

Brendon tried to figure out what he was looking at and, in his search, he glanced down at his chest to find his dog tag dangling out and lying flat on his— _Dallon’s_ shirt. He grabbed it quickly and tucked it beneath the fabric so it vanished from sight. He tried to swallow down the lump in his throat; it managed to stay intact. 

“You good to go?” Dallon asked, watching him warily like Brendon might cry or something.

Brendon smiled, nodding. He couldn’t stop playing the chain between his fingers. “Yeah. I’m good.” 

It turned out, the name Dallon had given Breezy in the yard turned out to be a real place. The bar above The Church. It was called ‘Walk of Shame’ which actually made Brendon laugh out loud when he saw the sign. Clever. 

Dallon glanced to his side to see Brendon smiling and immediately broke into one himself. He asked, “What? What is it?”

“Walk of Shame,” Brendon read, pointing at the sign. “And his name is Jon _Walk_ er. Just think it’s funny s’all.”

“You’re the only one,” Dallon replied, still grinning. “Everyone tells him he needs to change it. Makes it sound too…”

Dallon waved his hand around for emphasis on a word he didn’t know and Brendon could only nod and pretend as though he understood. That was usually what happened when Dallon and he talked. The downside to having a college English teacher and a soldier as friends. 

“I mean ‘The Church’ sounds better than ‘Walk of Shame’.” Dallon’s voice went significantly quieter when he said it. 

They were nearing the bar, closer and closer, and Brendon could make out the music that was playing from inside. It sounded loud, obnoxious, and almost definitely recorded. Brendon grimaced as he listened. 

“Is that a jukebox?” he asked, scrunching up his nose.

Dallon grinned at the look on Brendon’s face. “Yeah. That a problem?”

Brendon thought about it as the two stopped a few feet away from the building, skimming its length with his eyes, scrutinizing. “They don’t do live?”

“No,” Dallon answered. “ _They_ don’t.” 

He turned then and Brendon followed him the rest of the way to the doors. There was a man—the bouncer, Brendon was sure—sitting on a stool outside, a hat pulled down over his dark hair and his arms folded. He looked like he was trying too hard to be intimidating. Brendon didn't mind that so much though. Knew plenty of guys in war that pretended to be something they weren't. Himself included. 

“Hi, Butch,” Dallon greeted brightly.

The man looked up from the corner of his eyes, using a finger to tip his hat up, his eyes glazed as if he had just woken up. He returned, gravelly, “Weekes.”

Dallon didn’t say anything else as he started toward the door. Brendon tried to follow but ‘Butch’ kicked a leg out in front of him. Brendon stepped back quickly so as not to trip over the limb. 

“Oh uh, he’s mine,” Dallon offered, leaning back, and Brendon didn’t like the way he phrased that. Not at all.

Brendon wasn’t anyone’s. Certainly not Dallon’s. But he didn’t protest and Butch looked him over once before nodding and pulling his leg back to let him proceed. Dallon dipped his head in thanks and gestured for Brendon to follow him inside. 

The smell hit Brendon almost instantly when he stepped through the door. Sweat and people and cologne and perfume mixed together. For a split second, he considered turning tail and puking on the sidewalk. Like he did over the side of the boat when he was with Ryan on his way to America. 

“Wow,” he said to Dallon as they entered, reaching up to put a palm over one of his ears. “It’s loud.”

It was all he could think to say and he didn’t want to offend Dallon; he knew this place probably meant a lot to him but it was just—it certainly wasn’t what he had in mind. Wasn't the sort of place he would normally tie Dallon to. Not his scene. 

Dallon shook his head, not saying anything, as he took hold of Brendon’s wrist and pulled him through the crowd. 

Brendon didn’t protest to the feeling of Dallon’s warm hand tight around his forearm but he wasn’t all that pleased by it. Especially when he was being maneuvered through foul-smelling packs of people as they went. The grip that Dallon had on him was tight enough that, for a moment, he stressed that even if he pulled he wouldn’t be able to break away. 

A split second of panic. Trapped. Trapped. 

And then it was over just as quickly as it had begun as they finished crossing the dance floor and reached the other side where another door awaited them. Brendon almost questioned but Dallon didn’t give him time as he knocked. 

His signature knock no less. Two crisp clicks of his knuckles and a hard, full handed slap. 

Brendon had been right. Dallon looked stupid when he did it. 

He smiled to himself before he was being tugged by Dallon's hand on his wrist again, this time with a lighter touch, through the door that had seemingly pulled itself open. 

“Thanks,” Dallon said to some ghost on the other side. 

Wait, no. It was a human. A kid of probably seventeen or eighteen and he beamed at Dallon in reply, then stared in awe at Brendon as the two went down the stairs together. 

It hit Brendon immediately what the kid was thinking. _How’d he get so lucky as to get_ Dallon Weekes _to hold his hand?_ And yeah, Brendon wasn’t really sure. He didn’t feel all that lucky. He barely smiled at the kid as Dallon dragged him down the stairs by the arm. 

He didn’t know why Dallon was being so urgent with it all, tugging him along, holding his wrist so tightly. 

He still couldn’t get over the phrase ‘he’s mine’. He would have to make a point to ask Dallon about that later. To tell him never to do it again.

There was only one flight of stairs, though it was long and steep, before they reached the bottom. 

“Alright. Here it is.” Dallon’s cheeks were red and he looked prouder than Brendon had ever seen him. “The Church.”

He pushed through two tapestries that hung in the door frame to yank Brendon inside. 

The smell wasn’t nearly as pronounced. In fact—it had all but dispersed. No more ugly cologne or perfume. No more sweat. Just a room that smelled of cool earth and alcohol. 

Brendon took in a heavy breath like he could breathe again. 

The music was gone too. No more electronic Sinatra leaking from a machine. There was real jazz. Real, beautiful jazz and Brendon let a broad grin come over his face as he opened his eyes and looked across the room. 

It was smaller than the upstairs but _definitely_ not small. There was room enough for a bar in the corner and an angled stage to the opposite side. On that stage stood a woman in a beautiful black dress and heels with her hands clad in velvet gloves on a microphone and behind her, a man with messy black hair sat at a piano, fingers dancing like they were trained in ballet.

“It’s live. The music’s live,” Brendon practically hissed into Dallon’s ear. As though Dallon didn’t already know. 

“I told you. They don’t have it.” Dallon grinned. “But _we_ do.” 

“Speaking of we—”

Brendon turned abruptly to see a new man approaching them, wearing a suit and a smile, his dark hair not slicked back but certainly raked through with fingernails to look that way. The man had a short beard, really more of a shadow on his face than anything else and innocent-looking eyes. 

“Were the hell were you?" The new man asked, swaying forward. "Thought you were coming by, I wanted to show you those plans.”

Plans? Right. Plans. Dallon had mentioned those earlier, hadn't he? 

“Jon,” Dallon started, focusing on the man in question. “Listen, I’m sorry. Something came up. But, hey, at least I called in.”

“Yeah. At least. More than I can say for some of these cheap asses.” The man Brendon knew to be Jon Walker sent a skeptical look through the room like he was trying to pick out one face in particular. 

There were maybe fifty people or so mingling, drinking, and listening to the music that dripped from the stage. It was more refined than anything Brendon had seen for quite some time. Usually, the homosexual clubs he went to—before the war—were loud, and a bit too gaudy for his taste. But this? He could get used to this.

“Well," Dallon asked. "Did you at least get someone else to look at it?” 

“Cassie did,” Jon replied easily, humming to himself between the words. “She said they were gorgeous.”

“She would.” Dallon snorted. “She is your wife and they are _your_ plans. She's required to say that.”

The man on the butt end of the joke clapped Dallon heartily on the shoulder and still found a way to laugh. “You’re right about that. Speaking of wives; who’s this?”

Jon Walker’s not-so-innocent-anymore eyes focused in on Brendon. So now _Brendon_ was on the butt end of the joke. Fitting. 

Dallon didn’t say anything about it, however, so Brendon was sure he was used to this. Then again, Jon Walker was straight. Not many straight guys out there that were willing to house a gay bar, much less mingle with the fags. Jon Walker was better than most. Dallon and Brendon could deal with the occasional slur. 

“I’m Brendon.” He extended a hand to shake. “Urie. It’s nice to see you again, Jon.”

Jon made an odd face, neglecting to reach for Brendon's hand. “Again?”

Dallon looked over. “Church, Jon. We all went to church together.”

That was enough to make Jon laugh much too loudly for such a calm place. “Wow, imagine that. Met at church a few years ago, all God-fearing men—Next thing you know we’re in a different sorta church that God hasn’t _a thing_ to do with. That’s poetic if anythin' ever was.” 

Dallon found it in himself to agree with a chuckle and Brendon smiled a little too hard. 

“How long’s it been then, Urie?” Jon asked. He hadn’t taken the hand off of Dallon and instead had moved it from his back to hang on to his shoulders. Brendon wondered if Jon Walker was drunk. 

“Four—five years,” Brendon answered.

Jon hummed. “Where the hell you been all that time? If you’re so keen on Dally here; why aren’t you hanging around?”

Brendon’s smile faltered at the corners but managed to stay up. “In the war.”

“The war?” Jon repeated. He sounded in awe. “Shit.”

Brendon did laugh that time. “Yeah. It was.”

“So what?" Jon asked, officially intrigued. "You two love-birds write letters to one another?” 

Dallon chuckled awkwardly and started to say, “No, actually we’re not—”

Brendon cut him off. “No; Dallon never wrote me.”

Jon’s dark eyes went up to Dallon, and yeah, he was probably drunk. Almost definitely. “Damn, Dally. Didn’t even write your boy some letters. What if he’d died?”

What if. 

Jon Walker was right. What if Brendon had died? The thought was racking his brain around in his skull. No Ryan Ross on the train inviting him to Vegas. No promises of Nowhere. No Dallon Weekes in high-waisted pants and checkered shirts or The Church with live music. If Brendon Urie had died? No nothing at all. 

“Yeah, Dal.” Brendon gave a hard look but a smirk was on his mouth. “What if I’d died.”

Dallon didn’t look as though he found it funny. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said and his blue eyes were no longer soft when they looked at Brendon. They were hard and for just that moment, Brendon was sure he preferred them that way. “You didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am like busting this thing out huh? Frickin' hope I can keep this up. 20,000 words in 4 days. I've only dreamed of a writing sprint like this.


	5. The War and You

Ryan ended up at home. So he was a coward, yes. No doubt about it. He was a stupid, selfish coward. But it had grown so late as he walked. And his house was closer to Pete's toy store than Z’s house was and he couldn’t do it. He just couldn't.

Not on the same night that he got off the train, leaving Brendon Urie and three years of his life behind. He needed a breather. One night. Only one, that was all he was asking for. One night and he swore to himself that he would go see Z the next morning. He would. 

Though as Ryan lay stiff as a board on his rock-hard mattress after shedding his uniform for a blanket—exactly like he had told Brendon he would—one night felt like a lifetime. 

He pressed his head back into his pillow and tried closing his eyes to the darkness. The moment he did, however, the thunk of his heart shifted to gunshots and bombs shattering into tiny French towns and Brendon—Brendon was there, despite how much Ryan didn’t want him to be, helmet askew on his head as he ran from oncoming fire. 

Ryan tried to sleep that night. He really did. 

He lay in the bed, kicked covers around himself. Listened to his own breathing in the night and he thought for some time. He wasn’t exactly sure what about. No actual concise or clear ideas that he could distinguish. It was a hole where his memories should be. An absence of anything before. 

He cleared his mind of all the thoughts he could. Let there be silence. Silence save for his own soft exhales in a bedroom by himself, the first time alone in three years. And even those sometimes sounded too loud.

He could barely close his eyes at first, too scared of what would be lurking behind his lids. So he laid completely still, a rock towards the bottom of the ocean. Sinking, sinking, staring up at the ceiling all the while. Waiting for the world to fade away while he drowned. 

He memorized every spot on the ceiling, every place where the paint was clumped together. His house. His _home_. He wondered why the ceiling was painted beige. Who decided that? Had he wanted it that color? Or had it been that way when he moved in? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember. Why not blue? If he had picked the color, it would have been blue. Ryan wished his ceiling was blue like the sky. 

Somehow—as he lay alone in his bed in Las Vegas—he found himself missing the nights on the ground in France with men he marched with sleeping nearby. Men he marched with, Brendon included. 

Nights when the world rested and the men were free to snore without strife. When Ryan had been on watch and hadn't felt as tense as usual. When things had faded away and he was free to sit there with his rifle abandoned beside him. He didn’t even touch it on those nights. Liked to pretend it wasn’t there at all.

He remembered one of those nights when he was sitting up against a wall of dirt that made up the pit he and three other men shared. That night, somehow, he hadn't been worried. 

Those were the best moments of war. 

When the adrenaline was gone, the thunk of his heart wasn’t a bass drum. It was but a subtle pang, barely audible at all in his ears, and the world didn’t feel against him. The world felt like it wasn’t against anyone at all, not with them either. The world was spinning and he was along for the ride. 

Brendon had been beside him on the ground. He hadn't been asleep either, staring up at the sky too. 

He had packed his poncho up beneath his head and put his arms under it to cushion it further. Ryan would have wondered if he minded the poncho getting dirty if he knew there was a way to avoid it. But there wasn't a way to divide between clean things and messy things in that place. It was all grime in France. After a while, things that _weren’t_ dirty felt filthy in their own way. 

Brendon looked over at Ryan with half-lidded eyes. He had a sort of tired look to him that night. Not dazed; Brendon was always very much alert, but one could be ready for action and dreary at the same time. Like sleepwalking. 

“Quiet,” he said in a lowered voice like it was supposed to mean something. 

Ryan didn’t like talking so much during the nights. Worried about what could be listening nearby. A valid concern, certainly. You didn’t talk to the mouse if you were in the lion’s den. You let the mouse fend for itself. 

“Tonight,” Brendon spoke up and Ryan always listened when he did, “‘S quiet tonight.”

Ryan nodded, humming a small reply, not looking over although he could feel Brendon’s black eyes resting heavy on his back. An intense stare that seared the skin it looked upon. Ryan shifted against the wall awkwardly. 

“You could hear a pin drop or something out here, it’s so quiet,” Brendon whispered.

Ryan nodded again. He still wouldn’t look over. 

Brendon sniffed and Ryan listened to him scratch at his nose with a sleeve. “Wish I had a pin to drop now. Just for the Hell of it.”

A new voice surfaced from the night a few feet over. “Urie, would you just shut it?”

Ryan did look over at that voice. Another of the three men Ryan shared the pit with, Dan Pawlovich, had raised himself up on his elbows, looking frustrated. There was sleep in his eyes and drool on his mouth. He must have realized it too because he wiped his stubbly face with a hand. 

Most of the men weren’t shaven. It took a lot of effort to shave. Ryan and Dan both had maybe a weeks growth to their face although Dan’s grew in thinner around his cheekbones. Ryan was in desperate need of a shave. 

“Some of us are actually tryin’ to sleep,” Dan bit in a hiss. He was scratching at his stubble, the patchy parts mostly. 

“How come?” Brendon asked and he started to sit up as well. 

He had a stupid innocence to his gaze that night. But Brendon was young. Younger than Ryan by about a year; Ryan remembered thinking about how young Brendon looked that night with sleep messy hair. Nothing but the light of his innocent, young eyes and full, puckered lips framed in the night. 

“It’s so quiet tonight,” he said.

Dan scoffed. “Yes. Exactly. Perfect for sleeping, don'tcha think?”

Brendon thought on it but shook his head like a child. “Nuh-uh.”

Dan grumbled loudly, enough to finally shake Mike Naran from his heavy slumber. Mike didn’t argue like Dan did. He didn’t sit up either, simply rolled over on his side and propped his head up with a hand to listen. There was humor on his face. An intrigue in his stare. 

“Hardly ever get quiet like this,” Brendon explained to Dan evenly, now aware that he had an audience. “How can you waste it on sleep?”

Mike and Dan looked on at him. Ryan felt a smile tweak the corners of his mouth. 

Mike puckered his lips in thought and looked over at Dan. He had a quiet voice when he spoke in agreement, “Hardly ever have it this quiet, Dan. Hardly ever.”

Dan gave an exasperated look between the two, thrusting a hand up. “So what d’you propose we do then? With this _all-important_ silence?”

Ryan smiled and said, “Don’t waste it.”

The four men laughed silently. Didn’t dare laugh loud enough for the rest of the world to hear. 

Only the four of them, huddled close to each other in the pit. A place like this, men were never far apart. Dan’s legs were right alongside Mike’s, though their heads were opposite sides of the ditch wall. Brendon was opposite Ryan, a foot or two away from Dan. Ryan’s legs would have been dividing them had he not folded them beneath him. He rested an elbow on his knee and his chin in that hand. Surveyed the group of men around him. 

“What’re you supposed to do in this sorta quiet?" Mike wanted to know, the question directed at Brendon. "How do you make sure you don’t waste it?” 

The decided leader, Brendon Urie, tilted his head in thought. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t ruin it with talking. You can’t dare ruin something like this.”

Mike nodded like it made all the sense in the world and Dan rolled his eyes as far back in his head as he could. He shifted down into himself, jutting his chin out and pressing his head into his raised shoulders.

Ryan, Mike, and Brendon didn’t say anything. Nothing at all. They fell into that gentle silence, the one they all so craved, and looked up at the sky blankly. Three men on watch that night when they only needed one. 

Ryan counted the seconds that the silence lasted. The breaths he held in his chest had never seemed so sweet when he let them part his lips and the company of other men had never felt so comforting. The world had never been so quiet, so perfect. Hardly ever got quiet like that. Hardly ever. 

The three men stared at the sky and even Dan couldn’t resist looking up. 

The sky had never been so deep and inky blue. 

_Why aren’t there stars on the ceiling?_ Ryan asked himself as he lay in bed years later in Las Vegas, unable to sleep. Maybe he could paint them. But white dots on beige probably wouldn’t be very attractive. No. He wouldn’t paint the stars. Only wish he could. 

He closed his eyes and let the darkness breathe him in like a drug. No high though. No boost and no joy. Only the darkness. 

No nightmares. No nothing. Only black. 

And somehow, that emptiness—it scared him more than the nightmares ever could.

Ryan got out of bed a moment later. Carried himself across the floorboards in his socks and found himself in the kitchen, standing in the center with an odd look on his face. He felt something cool running down the side of his head and raised a hand to wipe it. 

He must have been sweating. 

He shouldn’t be. He didn’t know why he was sweating. No cause for that. 

He wondered if he should make himself a cup of coffee, or tea maybe. But caffeine was probably bad. He wanted to go to sleep. But he didn’t want the nightmares. Although, he didn’t want the silence either. He just wanted to scream. 

He glanced at the clock on the wall and pulled the blanket he had wrapped himself in higher up on his body. It felt much too hot in his house to wear pajamas. 

It was nearing four a.m. 

What to do, what to _do_. 

He would probably go see Z around eight or so when he knew her father would be at work. Z and he had always been bonded by their lack of a mother. Granted, Z actually liked her father. 

Ryan wondered what George was up to. Wondered if _he_ would care Ryan was back. No. No, he probably wouldn’t. 

Ryan glanced around the empty house, dark save for the slivers of moon streaking in from the window and across his floorboards. He padded over to them on bare feet and stood in the light, casting a menacing shadow over the beams and canceling out the moonlight. 

He regretted it instantly and backed away from the window. 

He made himself that cup of tea; there wasn’t anything better to do. Tea was nice anyway. It ran down his throat, hot and comforting. He bet, if he really wanted to, he could find a bar open. It was Las Vegas after all. And the strip was almost done being constructed. He could almost certainly find one there. Granted, it would be a bit sad. Only back home for about twelve hours and he was already keen on drowning his thoughts in alcohol. 

Ryan Ross was better than that. Or he thought he was, at least. 

He drank his tea slowly and waited for eight o’clock to roll around. Sure enough, it did. And he got dressed to leave without having a lick of sleep. It was fine though. He didn’t feel any different than he had on the train. 

Correction actually: he had felt better on the train. 

At least when he had been on the train, he'd had Brendon’s glazed eyes. Now all he had was an empty house and the fear of seeing a girl he was sure didn’t remember him. He would trade this for a train to Nowhere any day. 

He dressed himself in what he thought to be one of his nicest outfits. Suit pants, a white button-up and suspenders. He wouldn’t lie, it looked significantly better than his green and cream uniform. 

It was as he was staring at himself in the mirror, carding his fingers back through his hair over and over to make it seem slick—it turned out pomade hardened after three years—that he saw the glint of silver peeking around his neck. He paused. Stared at the shimmer before dipping a hand into his shirt, entangling the chain around his fingers. His dog tag. _George Ross._

God, he hated that thing. 

He tugged it off and held it out in front of him, dangling from his fingers. It took a moment to decide, but eventually, he chose to place the necklace down on his kitchen table and start toward the door without it. The little green gentleman caught his eye, sitting next to his dog tag. 

Three years of his life on that table. 

His folded uniform and his clean army boots. His duffel bag shoved beneath the table. His dog tag curled up ontop of the wood. And finally, the plastic soldier named Brendon. 

Ryan stared at him across the room for a second before bracing a small smile on his lips. He saluted a soldier who had never saluted him before. And he was out the door. 

That time, when he made his way through Las Vegas streets to Z’s house, he didn’t hesitate. 

He didn’t stop at toy stores to play a child’s piano; he didn’t try to find a bar to drown away in. He walked. He walked straight there, to that house on the corner. That perfect house in that perfect neighborhood with that perfect girl inside. 

Hell, he practically ran to it. 

The house was as he remembered it and he was thankful it hadn’t changed. Ryan looked across the clean path that led up to Z’s front porch. The porch-swing was empty and the sun had risen, the morning pouring over Vegas.

He knew that her father was at work and—assuming she hadn’t picked up some sort of hobby—Z would be home by herself. Waiting there for him. 

Ryan stood in the light of an early morning at the end of an asphalt path to a house he didn’t live in. A house he wasn’t invited to. 

The path seemed too clean. 

Nothing was supposed to be that clean. There were supposed to be caterpillar tracks in the sand, not smooth pebbles for his orvals to clunk over. There should be buzzing of planes, he could hear it clearly now, not the subtle sing-song tune of a bird’s throat. 

These sounds were wrong to him, this place wasn’t right. 

_Can walkways really be too clean?_ Ryan thought. 

Certainly, this one seemed as much. No caking mud on his shoes and sloping ditches beneath his soles. Only a straight line of asphalt. Flat and inviting. 

He wavered a moment at the end of the path. Didn’t dare take a step forward for fear that his dirty orvals would soil the rock. But the path was already dusty and he should have known that. Couldn't make filthy things dirty, he should have known. Still, he dared not walk forward. 

He didn’t even have sense enough to call out. 

Simply stood there, as still as the stone he dared not to touch. His shoes were cleaned sure, but when he walked he kept expecting to see muck, brown dips beneath his body. Bloodstains in the sand. 

When he finally did walk, listening to sound his dress shoes made on the asphalt—so different from the way his boots had blundered over dirt—his mind felt somewhere else. Completely disconnected from his body. Like he was but an observer from the clouds. 

What was his body meant for? Save for carrying his brain across the paths and crunching pebbles like bones. It didn’t even feel like his own body. Didn’t feel like anyone's. Just a mass, a waste of space. 

All the way up to the door the mass carried him until he wasn’t on rocks but planted firmly on wooden boards. Recently swept, he thought them to be. No dust. He kept turning back to see if he had ruined the porch too with muddy, bloody footprints but there didn’t seem to be any. No footprints on the porch. 

He knocked then, although it was more of his body knocking than him. His body wasn’t attached. He didn’t make a conscious decision to knock. Muscle memory brought it upon him. 

He prayed Z answered. Prayed that she had time for him.

There was sound inside the house, a shuffling of sorts and then there was a female voice calling out, “One moment!”

That was Z. That had to be. 

Everything drew back in, all so quickly, and Ryan was in his body once more. But he felt much less like he was inhabiting his skin and more like he was trapped in it.

The door lunged open and there she stood, a vision. 

Z was smiling as she stood there, a smile with glimmering white teeth, and she had let her hair down. It still blonde and still radiant but she had cut it shorter and hit hung only to her shoulders instead of down her back. She glowed like a light in a dream would and Ryan stood in awe. 

And then she wasn’t smiling at him anymore and Ryan’s heart beat much too fast in his chest.

“ _Ryan_?” she whispered. 

He didn’t understand why she asked that. Who else could it be?

“Hi, Z,” he mumbled back and his voice sounded caught in his throat for some absurd reason. 

“You’re alive.” She stared at him. “Holy—You’re _alive_?" 

“It would seem so, yeah.” He forced a grin at her.

“Oh my god, Ryan,” she breathed, moving to cover her mouth with a hand. 

Ryan didn’t have anything to say back to that, only a widening of his feeble smile, but then there was a new voice, a new sound uttering the same name. 

“Ryan _Ross_?”

Ryan frowned immediately. That wasn’t his own voice and that wasn’t Z’s. That was another man. A man he knew. His eyes went big with the realization. 

“Spencer?” he asked aloud in shock. 

He craned his neck to see inside the house and in the living room, sitting forward on Z’s couch was Spencer Smith, his eyes similarly as wide. 

Ryan almost greeted him. Almost smiled even bigger and went forward to hug him and rejoice that he was alive. That Ryan Ross wasn’t dead. Almost went and saw his best friend. Someone he knew would always miss him. 

Almost. 

But Spencer stomped that idea too quickly as he stood, a strange stagger to his step that Ryan didn’t remember, and held up his hands in a relaxed surrender. He said, “Don’t freak out, man.”

Ryan’s half smile fell entirely from his face and was replaced with a grimace, his eyebrows drawing in. Freak out? Why would he freak—

He stopped, looking between Z—whose hand was still over her mouth; when had she started to look so guilty?—and Spencer Smith whose hands were up in surrender and head was tilted and his eyes were pleading. 

Oh. 

That’s why. 

“You know, I wouldn’t have even _considered_ if you hadn’t just said that,” Ryan spat at him, bristling. 

Z made a grab for him like he was going to run away. Which sure, he had vaguely contemplated the idea, but no. _No._ He was better than that. Ryan Ross wasn’t a coward. Well, not at the moment. Not in front of Elizabeth Berg.

“It’s alright,” he assured Z, pulling back. “I’m not going.”

She looked at him with big eyes and he remembered why he always thought she was so pretty. She hadn’t changed much. If she had, she had only gotten prettier. 

Her voice was fearful. “Please don’t.” 

Ryan nodded. He sent a glance to the side, down the street to make sure no one could see him and what a fool he had been made out to be, and then back to Z. “Could I—could I come inside? Please?”

Z nodded vigorously and Ryan thanked her, letting her move back so he could walk through the door carefully in short strides. The house looked virtually the same on the inside and he didn’t know if he was happy about that or not. If he wished it had changed. 

Spencer hadn’t sat down, continuing to stand in the middle of the living room, although he had the decency to lower his hands to his side. Ryan did his best to smile but couldn’t manage the lie. 

So he stood there blank-faced, blinking at his best friend. He tried to make himself feel something. 

He tucked his hands into his pockets and swayed. “Hi, Spence.”

“Hi Ryan.” His old best friend looked skeptical. 

Ryan surveyed him up and down. His polo shirt and his worn khakis. His hair that he had parted on the side and neglected to slick down so some strands flipped over his forehead. Someone had been running their fingers through that hair. Spencer's lips were a darker shade of red and Ryan thought to himself that Z's lipstick had seemed smudged when she opened the door. He felt his chest clench at the realization. 

“You look like shit,” he said.

Spencer let out a coughing laugh and Ryan heard Z click the front door shut behind her as she came to join Spencer and he standing in her sitting room. Spencer asked lightly, “What, and you don’t?”

Ryan smiled flatly. “I didn’t say that.”

Z stood beside Spencer, a few feet away from Ryan and he looked between the pair. They looked alright together, he thought as he looked at them. They fit. 

“So,” he asked, pulling his shoulders up and shoving his hands deeper in pockets. He gestured with his head between the pair. “How long has this been... going on?”

The two of them shared a glance. A guilty, guilty glance. 

“I assume after I left,” he went on, suddenly feeling like he was sweating. “I hope.”

“Of course Ryan,” Z answered for them both hurriedly, as if offended she had been accused. “We wouldn’t do that to you. _I_ wouldn’t do that to you.”

“We thought you were _dead_ , Ryan.” Spencer wouldn’t take his eyes from Ryan’s stare. Like he was still trying to wrap his head around the whole thing. Around the fact that Ryan really was alive. Ryan understood. He was trying to wrap his head around it too. 

“Well—” Ryan let out a chuckle. “I’m _not._ ”

Spencer and Z both stared at him and, for a second, Ryan thought he was about to be slapped. He wasn’t though. Instead, Z slowly stepped forward to him. He squinted a tad as she neared, ready for her to take a swing at him. He deserved it if she did. 

He was surprised when she wrapped him in a hug, so tight that he felt the breath leave his chest. The gasp of shock he let out probably didn’t help. 

“I hate you,” she whispered, hugging him firmly, breathing into the crook of his neck and digging her fingernails into his shirt. “I hate that you did this to me. I hate you.”

He hugged her back loosely and sighed, rubbing over her shoulders and her spine. “I know you do.”

Spencer watched them and it seemed like he was holding his breath as Z slowly pulled away from Ryan, one of her hands resting on his shoulder, fingernails digging in to keep him in place. She peered over at Spencer and then back to Ryan, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Ryan felt he was to blame for that. 

“Ryan?" she asked. "Can you give us a minute? Please?”

He almost said no. Almost returned said that she should ask Spencer to give _them_ a moment. But Ryan, like a whipped dog, only nodded his head and turned away to walk out the back door, feeling Z's hand slide off him as he went. He made sure not to let the screen door hit him on the way out. 

He sauntered over to the back stoop and sat down heavily, resting his arms on his knees. He held his cheeks in his hands, staring out across the backyard. It was smaller but it could probably fit a dog. He wanted a dog. 

It was only a few minutes by himself before he heard the door open and close and the sound of bare feet treading out onto the steps. He didn’t look over when Z sat down next to him. 

She folded one leg over the other and shifted her skirt so it pooled out beneath her and over her knees. She put her arms in her lap and clasped her hands together. 

There were a few beats of silence—which Ryan couldn’t decipher were comfortable or not—before Z spoke in a soft tone. Similar to the one she had so often spoken to Ryan in before he left. 

“He went you know.”

Ryan tilted his head up, confused. He asked, “Who did?”

Z's fingers fidgeted in her lap. “Spencer.”

“Went where?” Ryan asked.

She let out what was supposed to be a scoff but came out a dreary sigh, “War.”

Ryan blinked in surprise. “He did?”

She nodded, refusing to look at him. “Italy. He was there for about seven months.”

“Italy,” Ryan repeated in awe. He shook his head, disbelieving. “What happened?”

“Got shot.” She had a serious look to her face, a set to her jaw, but her eyes were tired and her tone was casual. Like she was discussing the paper or something else mundane. “In the leg. I don’t know if you saw him limp or not.”

Ryan recalled the wobbly way Spencer had stood up from the couch. “I guess I did but I never thought that he’d… Wow.”

“He enlisted about half a year after you,” she continued. “To... prove something, I dunno. I always wondered why he never got drafted.”

Ryan put his head back in one hand. The fresh air curled around him. “Maybe he burned the notice.”

“Guys do that?” He expected her to sound more surprised but really, it was simply conversational. She smoothed out her skirt. “Burn their notices?”

“Sure they do,” Ryan returned because sometimes guys did. 

She wet her lips, finally raising her head to stare at him, her brow furrowed. “Isn’t there a law or something against that? Isn’t it at least about… I dunno… honor?”

“I don’t think a lotta guys care too much about honor when it comes to dying, Z.” 

Ryan had directed his eyes to the ground at the end of the stairs and Z followed his gaze. He picked at his shoelaces with a hand and she watched him do that too.

“Well…" Z rubbed a hand over her knee. "I’m just trying to say—so you don’t hate him—”

“I could never hate him,” Ryan said.

“You two have more in common than you think.”

“Uh-huh.” Ryan nodded, matter-of-fact. “The war and you.”

She glanced up at him with sad eyes and he hated that he was the reason she looked that way. He hated when he made her sad. He hadn’t meant to. And why was she the one that got to look that way? He should have been the one to look sad. He was the war boy. He was the broken one. But he didn’t feel so sad. Really, he felt tired. Empty.

“I never meant for this to happen.” She lowered her voice and said it like it was urgent he know. “Never. I wouldn’t ever hurt you like this, Ryan. Please know that.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” he admitted, picking at his shoelace. “I just—I know it’s not your fault, Z. I know.”

“It’s not,” she agreed. “I thought you were dead. There was no way to know you were alive either. Your dad would have gotten the notice and… We both know he wouldn’t have told anyone. So I… I thought you were.”

He chewed at the inside of his cheek. “Fair assumption.”

She stared at him like she wanted him to say more. As if she expected more. “I would have known if you had just… written me back.”

“I tried to wri—Wait.” He sat up, eyes going wide, shoelace forgotten. “You _wrote_ me?”

“Of _course_ I wrote you," she said to him like he was an idiot. “I said I would.”

He stared at her and her pretty face. “I never… I never got your letters.”

Her pretty face fell. “What? Why not?”

“Must have gotten lost,” he mumbled. “It happens.”

“Oh my god, Ryan," she said, and again a hand raised to her mouth. "I’m so—”

“Sorry. Yeah," he said, wishing she would quit it. "Me too.”

She shook her head in disbelief and Ryan did the same. He ran a hand over his face, wiping it across his shadowed chin. He needed a shave. All that time in France that his girl didn't write him. All that time that Brendon said she didn’t care. And she _had_.

“I quit about a year in though; I didn’t write them after a year,” she said after a second when Ryan didn't speak first. “I thought you were dead by then.”

Ryan nodded. He couldn’t blame her for that. He couldn’t blame her for anything. “I tried to write you once.”

“What happened?" she asked, leaning back. "Don’t tell me that got lost too.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I never sent it.”

She frowned. “How come?”

Ryan shrugged. “Didn’t sound right.”

“Of course it didn’t. I should have known.” She smiled at him. “Ryan Ross. Always the perfectionist when it comes to writing, huh?”

He laughed as best he could. The sound was pathetic. “The only thing I’m good at.”

“That’s not true.” She scooted closer to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. Her face was warm against his button-up. “You’re here aren’t you? So you’re good at not getting shot. Good at staying alive.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. He couldn't tell if that had been a joke or not. How could a man be good at living? “I am.”

There was silence. He listened to a bird sing nearby and the wind rustle tree branches. It was a hot day but the heat was nice on his skin. It was kind weather. It should have been a good day. 

“Do you love him?” Ryan asked quietly after a beat. He didn't pretend not to fear the answer. 

Z took in a sharp breath. “I think I do.”

He nodded slowly.

“I know you’re mad,” she said.

“I’m not mad.” He cocked his head at her on his shoulder and she looked up at him. “I just wish things were different. I wish _I_ was different.”

“Me too.” She looked down and away from him again to her skirt so she could adjust it. “But… things have changed for me. You too, for sure. It’s been three years. I can’t imagine we’re the same people we were. I know I’m not. Twenty-one to twenty-four...”

“It’s a big leap,” he agreed.

“Yeah…”

“It’s probably best then." Ryan started picking at his shoelace again. "That this happened.” 

“I’m not saying I don’t love you anymore,” she whispered. It was still too loud. 

“I know you’re not,” he said back though it hurt.

“I still love you.”

He felt his heart clench in his chest. “I know you do.”

Silence. Silence. Silence. 

“I’m sorry, Ryan,” she said.

“I’m sorry too.”

Silence. Silence. Silence. 

“I love you, Ryan.” 

The words felt sour. 

Ryan nodded and it meant nothing. 

“Me too.”

There was a long silence then, much too long where Z rested her head on Ryan’s shoulder and he only sighed, feeble and broken breaths past his lips. He didn’t know what he wanted from Z or what he had honestly expected when he came. But the emptiness that he felt as he sat there? He knew that wasn’t it. 

“My parents’ll be home soon,” Z said. 

She was asking him to leave. 

“It’s getting late,” he admitted. 

It was noon at the latest. Her parents wouldn’t be home for some time. She had probably asked Spencer back over. So they could talk. Two lovers sitting up late into the night and gossiping about Ryan Ross come back from the dead. Ryan Ross who was back from war in one piece. The ghost of Las Vegas. 

He stood up carefully, her head falling from his shoulder and she sat up, watching him straighten. 

“I’ll be seeing you, Z,” he said, looking down at her. One of his shoelaces was untied but neither said anything about it. 

She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. She returned, “I’ll see you around, Ryan. Soon.”

And Ryan didn't do anything but bob his head, agreeing to the lie, before he went inside, shutting the door sharply behind him. He walked away from the house, an uncomfortable pit weighing his stomach down. He knew what awaited him at home. Three years of his life on a table and nightmares. A restless sleep lay ahead of him. 

But it didn’t matter; sleep was overrated. 

Felt too much like death anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> For those of you who like the story (hi), I'm sorry but I will not be updating daily any more (although what a _rush_ it has been). 
> 
> I have a lot of school work to catch up on so the next part of the story will be delayed. But not to fret, I will still get out at _least_ one chapter each week so you will still be getting content! 
> 
> For those of you that don't have patience (like me) the story will be finished entirely by August 1st or so, for certain. So if you just wanna read it in its entire glory, write a reminder for August 1st ('WWII Ryden Fic completed' or something along those lines) and come give it a read!
> 
> For those of you staying with me through updates:  
> 1\. Why? You have better things to do.  
> 2\. Thank you very much for your cooperation. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed and continue to. :)


	6. A Dime or Dame

The bar was the same the following night, that cool earth smell and the gentle thundering of jazz music from a small stage swirling around Brendon’s head. He had a constant quirk to his lips, a tiny smile that he couldn’t wipe off. He was nursing a Tom Collins, a drink he hadn’t had in three years. 

If Brendon was going to drink while he was in France, it wasn’t going to be something like a Tom Collins. It was going to be vodka or whiskey. The hardest stuff he could find. 

Although, in Clearfield, all he wanted was a drink to relax with. One that he could sip at aimlessly, no need to drink it fast. No need to get drunk. Simply something with a bit of taste, a bit of a bite. Just enough to make him feel again. 

He rubbed the end of his finger around the rim of the glass and scanned his eyes over the room. There was a slower song playing—although most of what they played at The Church was slow—and no one was dancing. Not really, anyway. A sway to the left, a sway to the right. Maybe a subtle tapping of shoe soles, a mild bobbing of the head. No one _danced._ Not at this place. They all spent their time lounging around on the sofas drinking alcohol and some people stood, admiring the singer on stage. 

Her name was Nicole Row as Brendon had come to learn the previous night from Dallon on the walk home, and yeah, she was pretty good. Not _great_ by any means, not very extraordinary, but her voice was sweet and calm and it carried the jazz well. 

That night, she was wearing a flowing, sleeveless black dress. Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders and she tucked it behind her ears with an elegant hand clad in velvet gloves that went to her elbows. Brendon was well aware he was staring at her, listening keenly to the way her words sounded, the way her eyes closed when she sang and tracing his Tom Collin’s glass all the while. 

“Quite the looker, ain't she?”

He turned to see Jon Walker sitting on the stool next to him, smiling a sly, toothy grin. It was obvious he was waiting for a reply. Brendon couldn’t think of anything to do other than nod slowly in response. He agreed. Nicole Row was rather beautiful. For a dame.

“But not really your type, eh?” Jon laughed, happy to listen to his own voice. 

Brendon chuckled with him out of courtesy. “Yeah. Not really.”

“And Dally _is_ ,” Jon sang out in a tune different to the one Nicole was singing. “What a dream that is.”

Brendon watched him closely and puckered his lips, nodding again. Jon was staring ahead, transfixed with Nicole on stage, his eyelids drooping, and he was chewing consistently at his bottom lip. Brendon wondered what it was like to be so relaxed, to be _willing_ to leave yourself vulnerable like that. What a dream indeed. 

Jon let out a sudden, untimed snort that had Brendon flinching in surprise. 

When was this guy _not_ drunk?

“He’s a good guy, Dally,” Jon declared unprompted.

Brendon agreed again. He followed Jon’s eyes over to another part of the bar and there he was, the man Jon Walker assumed he belonged to. The man that had called him ‘mine’ when they entered the bar. Brendon hadn't yet asked Dallon about that choice of phrase. He should have. He had meant to. But when Dallon walked him back home the night prior, that conversation topic hadn't managed to come to mind. 

Brendon shifted in his seat and took a subtle taste from his Tom Collins. It was exactly what he thought a drink should be. Gin, a lemon floating, a hint of sugar beneath the surface. Exactly the right kind of bitter. 

Dallon was standing in a separate corner, having a conversation with the man who played the guitar with Nicole for certain songs. The guitar was strung over the man's shoulder and Brendon wondered what it would be like to own such an instrument. Be able to carry it around and pull it out whenever he so desired. Dallon had his arms folded and he seemed stressed, eyebrow crease intact, a deep grimace etched into his face, and his arms stiff on his hips. He was wearing one of those signature checkered shirts again, although this one was a tad more flattering on him, black and silver. Grey pants to match with a crease down their sides and the belt wore was black. He looked good. 

Brendon smiled to himself.

“Are you a good guy, Brendon?” Jon asked through a hum and Brendon’s attention was drawn away from Dallon, and his grey pants, back to the man sitting beside him at the bar. 

Brendon’s smile slipped away, turning itself into a frown. He didn’t really know how to answer that. Not like he had any idea. A good guy. Him? What classified someone as a ‘good guy’?

“Depends on what you mean,” Brendon finally answered and took another sip from his Tom Collins. 

“Guess you shouldn’t answer. You’d seem like a real prick if you said yes. But if you said no—” Jon rolled his head around on his shoulders. “That wouldn’t be so great either.” 

“Right,” Brendon agreed. A forfeit of an answer. 

“But Dally, he’s good. Some guys you just _know_ they’re good.” Jon’s eyes were no longer fixed on Nicole but on Dallon across the bar as though he couldn’t look away. Brendon couldn’t say he was pleased with that look. Like Dallon was a bug, Jon was a boot, and he had him exactly where he wanted him. “Knew it when we first met. He just... gives off this good glow, y'know?”

Brendon answered, because he did, “I do.” 

Jon turned to his side finally, tearing his eyes away from Dallon’s conversation to squint his eyes at Brendon. Surveyed him up and down. 

Brendon was starting to get severely tired of people doing that. There wasn’t much to see. 

Jon squinted his eyes. “Can’t tell with you.”

Brendon didn’t think that was a compliment. Or Jon hadn't meant it as such. He only wet his lips in response. With guys like Jon, it was probably best not to talk. He figured Jon could spin anything he said to fit his own benefit. That’s why it was concerning that Jon Walker seemed to have taken an interest in him. 

Dallon hadn’t told Brendon Jon was a threat or anything of that sort; Dallon probably thought he was harmless. But Brendon could see through those falsely innocent eyes. He could tell with people like that. 

Still, Jon smiled at him tiredly. Watched him drink his Tom Collins in small sips. 

“So, how long you been back then?” Jon wanted to know. 

Brendon set his drink back on the counter. He was turned away from it, his elbows pressed back so they could rest on the wood. “This’ll be day two.”

“Geez. Not long, huh?" Jon asked. "Woulda thought more. What with you and Dally being so cozy so soon. He never mentioned you that I remember.”

Jon was leering at him and there was a glint to his eye. He was trying to get a rise out of Brendon, he knew that. And so Brendon smiled a small, flat smile, and shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t say anything. Didn't give Jon the benefit of a bite. 

“Musta been nice coming back,” Jon purred.

Brendon reached back for his glass. “It has been.”

“Specially with your fella helping out at a fag bar now.” Jon yawned. “Must have you giddy.”

Brendon took a prolonged drink of Tom Collins. “Over the moon.”

“And so late coming back too,” Jon added. “Cover of darkness and all that. Don’t have to worry so much ‘bout being seen. Can get away with a lot in the dark. Musta been nice.”

Brendon had his eyes trained on Dallon in his black and silver shirt and his creased grey pants across the room. 

The man appeared upset, one of his arms around his middle and the other gesturing wildly. He liked to do that, gesture with his hands for emphasis. He had accidentally smacked Brendon on occasion with how aggressive he was with his physical descriptions. Brendon flattened his lips harder at the thought. 

Dallon _was_ a good guy, wasn’t he? A good, good guy. He would be a good guy to shack up with, all caring and doting. Dallon was the kind of guy that’d love you. Brendon knew that. Look at you with those wide blue eyes and say those three words like they were the only words that mattered. Dallon would say those words like he'd die for them. A real heartbreaker, that one. 

Brendon found himself pondering, as he stared at Dallon across the bar, what sort of guy Ryan Ross would be. Would he be the caring kind? Make breakfast in the morning, go to work, read the paper to you in bed? How would Ryan Ross say 'I love you'? 

Brendon shook his head. Hilarious, that idea. Guys couldn’t do that. Love. He knew guys couldn’t do that together. If he ever wanted to shack up with Dallon—or Ryan—they would have to lie and say they were roommates. Something like that. They wouldn’t be allowed to touch each other in public. Only glances that lasted too long to be friendly. It was enough to make Brendon wish he was a woman. Life would be a hell of a lot easier if he was a dame.

They were good, Dallon and Ryan. Too good for something like that. Just like Jon had said. Dallon was a good guy. And the sad thing was, Brendon knew his answer when Jon had asked.

He wasn’t. 

“So—” Jon was talking again and Brendon realized he hadn’t been listening. “Which one of you’s the lady?”

Brendon looked over in surprise. That was a rather sudden question, how much had he missed? Dallon had stopped talking to the man across the bar and Brendon saw him gesture over. Like he was going to approach them. 

“Jon,” Brendon said, no longer interested in the other man’s conversation topics. This joke had gone on too long. “Me and Dallon aren’t involved with one another.”

Jon appeared confused. 

“He’s not my guy,” Brendon reiterated. 

But Dallon had called him his.

Jon continued to look as if he’d been lied to, which he had—not necessarily on purpose; Brendon simply hadn't wanted to go into it—for a minute or two more before he relaxed. It was strange to Brendon that Jon managed to look both disappointed and relieved at the same time. 

“He’s not. Right then.” Jon nodded to himself. “Makes sense.”

Brendon leaned back more into his elbows, feeling the back of his shirt and spine rest against the smooth wood of the bar. 

“You’re a little too rough for him anyway, I think,” Jon said thoughtfully. 

Brendon turned to narrow his eyes but Jon didn’t seem to notice. 

“I mean like I said," he went on despite Brendon's obvious disgruntlement. "Dally’s… You know him. Gets a bit attached, doesn’t he? And you—? You’re a little—” Jon waved a hand over Brendon. “Well, you’re a war boy. Too hard for him. Too rough. Wouldn’t know what to do with you. It’s best you aren’t. It’d never work for you two.”

Brendon almost took that as a challenge. He could be a good guy if he wanted. For Dallon Weekes, he could be. But slowly, Brendon nodded in agreement. Yeah. Probably. 

“You’re right,” he said.

He could see Dallon approaching them, a semi-worried glare to his eyes and Brendon frowned at the sight. 

“But for the record,” he added quietly to his side and Jon looked up in dazed interest. “Dallon’s the dame.” 

Jon burst into laughter as Dallon finally reached them. He looked between Jon and Brendon in—what appeared to be—concern. His business partner drunk and cackling and his… best friend leaned up against the bar, holding a Tom Collins with a smirk plain on his face. 

“Hi Dal,” Brendon greeted, trying to cover his grin with a ruse of faux innocence. “Everything alright?”

Dallon sent him a pointed look that meant they would most certainly be discussing the origin of his smirk later but it was really not the time now. “No, actually. We’ve got a problem, Jon.”

With the words being directed at him, Dallon’s tone serious, Jon stopped laughing abruptly and glowered, sitting up straighter. “What do you mean, _problem_?”

“I mean Nicole says she’s gotta run.”

Jon was leaning forward instantly and he didn’t look drunk anymore. Brendon wondered how he could manage the change so quickly. And then he wondered if Jon really was drunk or if he did it on purpose. 

What a clever thing to do. Trick someone into thinking you were vulnerable so it would be all the more jarring when you shot them down. Jon was clever then. Brendon didn’t give him enough credit. 

“Run?” Jon demanded. “Run where?”

Dallon scratched aimlessly at the side of his cheek. “Someone called in; said her ma was sick.”

“And you _told_ her?” Jon groaned and ran a hand down his face. “ _Moron_. Why didn’t you wait ‘till after she was done?”

Dallon reared back, disgruntled by the words. “Her mother could be dying, Jon. I thought she oughta know.”

Jon shook his head, ignoring Dallon’s obvious disgust. “How long ‘till she leaves then?”

“After this song is done,” Dallon returned.

“Shit.” Jon let out a heavy breath, rubbing over his dark hair, scrubbing it through and certain strands stuck up where they weren’t supposed to. He looked very, _very_ drunk again. “What the hell are we supposed to do now? Get Eric to go on and keep playing piano for the whole night? You can’t have a fag club without music.”

Dallon’s anger had subsided and he appeared as though he understood, nodding and fiddling with his sleeve absently. It was then that his eyes finally drifted over to Brendon, once again drinking his Tom Collins and pretending he hadn’t been listening to Jon and Dallon’s domestic dispute. 

Those blue eyes rested on Brendon for but a split second, thoughtful, before they went wide. Dallon’s lips parted in an ‘o’ and he started to raise his finger in a point. Brendon realized instantly what Dallon was about to do and he mouthed a panicked, ‘no, _no!_ ’ but Dallon was already speaking. 

“Brendon can sing.”

Brendon nearly screamed at him but he was forced to smack his mouth shut as Jon was already turning in his direction with intrigue once again written on his face. He chorused, “You can sing?”

Brendon opened his mouth and closed it. Opened it again. He swallowed. “I mean, I can carry a tune.”

“Brendon’s a Sinatra kid," Dallon broke in. "Sounds just like him."

“Sinatra, huh?” Jon was holding Brendon in that scanning gaze again, so very interested. “Well... aren’t you full of surprises.”

Brendon shrugged feebly, wiping the palms of his hands nervously on his khakis—Dallon’s actually; he needed to get some clothes—and glanced around, hoping to evade Jon’s eyes. 

“He’s good,” Jon said to his side, back to Dallon. “Sinatra is.”

Brendon nodded. “He is.”

'Sinatra can sing,' Ryan Ross had said in Nancy. And he had been right. Sinatra could certainly sing. 

“So, you’re doing it then.” Jon was standing up cleanly from the bar-stool; Brendon thought he would have stumbled. 

“Doing what?” Brendon asked, leaning away from his own seat, his elbows pulling off the counter. 

“Singing,” Jon called as he started to walk. “I’ll call you up in five. Get those pipes ready to go on, kid.”

He disappeared off into the crowd and Brendon sat there, face gone white as a sheet. He turned to see Dallon watching Jon melt into the mass. He hummed a note to himself. “Didn’t think he’d go for it that quickly, I'll be honest. The man must really be desperate. Huh.”

Brendon stared at him, his jaw hanging slack. 

“What?” Dallon asked and he smiled in return. It was obvious he knew what. 

“Don’t stand there! Stop him before he reaches the front. Jesus, Dallon.” Brendon pressed a hand to his face, rubbing at one of his eyes and then through his hair. “I can’t—No, Dallon. Look at me right now. I can’t do that. Not the way I look.”

Dallon surveyed him over. Brendon sitting in his own khakis and shirt. Of course he liked the outfit. He smirked. “You look alright to me.” 

“I’m going to kill you, Dallon Weekes,” Brendon said and Dallon laughed. 

“I’m counting on it.”

“Hello ladies... and ladies.” Jon was on the stage and Brendon stared after. 

This wasn’t seriously happening. No. He was not about to get up in front of a crowd of nearly sixty or so people and sing after only being back for two days, wearing Dallon Weekes's khakis. That wasn’t about to—No. He drew the line. 

“So sorry to inform," Jon announced. "But our dear Nicole—” 

A whistle from the crowd. A girl’s whistle and Nicole put on a smile as she strutted off stage. She was practically glowing. You’d never know her mother was sick. Brendon wondered how many other secrets she hid behind that voice and black dress. 

“Is off for the night.”

Someone let out a whine and a few groans followed. Brendon was beginning to sweat beneath Dallon's clothes. 

“Dallon, no,” he whispered. “Dallon stop him. I’m serious, Dallon. I’ll die on stage. I’ll drop dead, Dallon. Stop him.”

“But we have a guest filling in for her," Jon continued. "And Dallon Weekes says he can sing, so let’s hope he can.”

There was a demonic sneer on Jon’s lips and _oh_ , so that was his game. He wanted Brendon gone. What for? What had Brendon done in the last two nights that marked him a target? Or maybe that was just what Jon did. Hunt and root out the weak. Survival of the fittest and all that. It worked in war.

“Dallon," Brendon begged from the corner of his mouth. " _Dallon_." 

“It’s too late now,” Dallon said and he was right. 

Jon’s eyes were set on Brendon from across the room. What other options did Brendon have? Run, look like an idiot, and leave Dallon in the lurch. Or… or sing. Dance like a monkey for all those drunk, expecting eyes. 

He swallowed anxiously and spun around on his bar-stool. Jon’s voice was still going on behind him. It was a long introduction. Brendon groped for his Tom Collins and raised it to his mouth. No more gentle, slow sips. He guzzled the thing as fast as he could. 

Dallon watched him in amusement. “What're you doing there, Brendon?”

Brendon tipped the now empty glass into his hand and took the lemon slice from it. He brought it to his lips and sucked, letting the sour taste flood his mouth, squinting his eyes against it. He choked on the sting, putting the lemon rind back into the glass, and setting it on the table with a crisp clink. He covered his cough with a fist. “I’m getting wasted.”

Dallon only laughed.

“Our very own, Brendon Urie,” Jon’s voice rang out. 

A few confused noises followed and Brendon squeezed his eyes shut tight. _Alcohol work. Alcohol work. Make me drunk. Make me drunk. I can’t get up there sober._

“Brendon Urie,” Jon said again, deeper that time. 

Dallon shook his shoulder. “Brendon.”

Oh, alright, fine.

Brendon raised himself from the stool, shaking his head. He wiped a hand over his face, back through his hair again. Pulled at the front of his shirt as he trailed through the crowd. Dallon followed behind him. There was an unspoken gratitude and pride that radiated from him as he wandered behind him and Brendon tried to let that spur him on. 

He could do it. He could sing. He was a good singer, after all. Ryan Ross had thought so.

He hopped up onto the stage, pretending that his legs weren't shaking beneath him, greeted by Jon smiling at him how a cat smiled at a mouse. 

“Hope Dally’s right. It’d be embarrassing if he’s not,” Jon said into his ear as he passed by, clapping Brendon roughly on the shoulder. “Knock ‘em dead, kid.”

Brendon planned to. 

“Uhm—” His own voice was speaking over the mic. Or he thought it was his voice. Sounded like him. “Hey there.” 

All eyes were on him disinterestedly. All except Dallon Weekes, his best friend, standing in the front row with wide blue eyes that held nothing but pride. So when he spoke again, he spoke only to them. Only to those blue eyes that already knew his name. 

“I’m Brendon Urie.”

Dallon’s smile was wide across his face, so much so that his eyes crinkled at the corners and he had dimples. 

Brendon grinned back embarrassingly wide. “Sorry that Nicole had to go. She’ll be back soon though, another day. In the meantime, I’m going to sing for you, and so you know, Jon sort of sprung this on me. So if I’m terrible, well, it’s his fault really for trusting me up here.”

He sent a fake smile to Jon at the bar and he could make out Jon's returning scowl from the stage. Success on that. _I’ll show you, Jon Walker. I’m just as dangerous as you are._ Now all he had to do was sing. 

Wait. Sing. What song? What the hell was he supposed to sing? It felt like it had been years since he'd last sung. Years since that day in Nancy with Ryan Ross and Sinatra. He needed Ryan there to sing the harmonies.

For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a decent Sinatra song. What songs had he heard most recently, on the radio? On Dallon’s radio in the living room when they sat together? What had Nicole been singing? Oh, oh! That song he had stuck in his head all the time lately. How did that one go?

He turned to cast a glance back at the man who sat at the piano, staring at him expectantly. The man had on a lopsided bow-tie and his grin was just as unusual. 

“Hi,” Brendon greeted, tugging himself away from the microphone so the audience couldn't hear his uncertainty. 

The man he knew as Eric Ronick tilted his head, which was greeting enough. 

“You know the song ‘I’ve Got the World on a String’?” Brendon asked. 

Eric blinked in surprise. 

Brendon panicked. “‘32? Composed by Harold Arlen? Louis Armstrong? It’s beautiful. It—”

“Yeah," the piano player said. "I know it.”

It was Brendon’s turn to blink. “You do?”

“Of course. Arlen doesn’t get enough credit.” Eric smiled at him and Brendon couldn’t help but smile back. A foggy feeling was starting to sink over his brain. Tom Collins coming by to say hello. 

Eric tapped his finger against the piano a few times and Brendon pulled back up to the microphone. 

“This is your key,” Eric told him and Brendon nodded, listening to the sound. He hummed quietly to get a feel for it. Sounded about right. Eric looked out to the rest of the band crowded towards the back of the stage. Mostly nodding to the trumpet player, who Brendon didn’t know the name of. He said, loudly as if clearing his throat, “You hear that fellas? World on a String?”

The trumpet player bobbed his head and brought the instrument to his lips, ready for action. 

“You good to go?” Eric asked Brendon. 

Brendon could see how the crowd watched him expectantly, waiting to dance and smoke and laugh again. How Dallon smiled up at him with nothing but adoration in his eyes. How Jon scowled from the bar, only irritation in his. 

His mind was feeling blurry, as if the thoughts had fallen down in the wrong order and couldn't right themselves. Brendon took in a breath. “As I’ll ever be.”

‘One… two… three,’ Eric mouthed and he slapped the keys. 

Man, he could play, Brendon thought, standing at the microphone, waiting for his cue. The music washed over him, similar to how Nicole’s voice had. Beautiful and serene and Brendon had to close his eyes for a moment, tilting his head back as the feeling curled around him. Wrapped him up in the water of its notes and he drowned beautifully in the sound. 

A minute of introduction and people had gone back to mingling and talking. They weren’t even paying attention to him. No one but Dallon Weekes in the front row and Jon Walker at the bar. Good. Good, good. He didn’t want the attention. 

He heard that signature trumpet and the change of the keys and he thought, _now._ That was his cue. 

“ _I've got the world on a string, sittin' on a rainbow._ ”

His thoughts drowned in that sound faster than they could ever drown in alcohol. 

The eyes of the crowd rose to him, and it felt like everyone was listening to what he had to say. He kept his eyes closed, trying to enjoy the music for what it was. Even if he sounded bad—which he knew he didn’t; he’d never sounded better in his life—he didn’t stop. 

“ _Got the string around my finger / What a world, what a life, I'm in love._ ”

He felt the song go on for a while, singing and enjoying the moment as it passed and the drink had definitely taken over him because there was no way he would be smiling this much if he were sober. High on life, maybe. High on the sound. 

When the song ended, they clapped. All the people in the audience applauded him. And he finally opened his eyes, looked out across the audience in a daze. Dallon wasn’t smiling anymore. He was staring at Brendon in awe—maybe something else Brendon couldn't place—and Brendon felt his cheeks flush at the look. He didn’t like praise and that expression was certainly it. Genuine praise like that, opposed to the jokes he and Dallon threw each other’s way—it made him feel like he didn’t fit in his own skin. 

Jon wasn’t glaring anymore, either. Jon was staring in a similar way to Dallon but Dallon gazed at Brendon with so much happiness and celebration; Jon looked on with only shock. And honestly, Brendon was shocked too. 

He didn’t think they would clap. They didn’t clap when Nicole finished a song. His cheeks felt too hot and he blamed it on Tom Collins, that shifty bastard. 

“Wow,” Eric’s voice came from behind him and Brendon turned to see him grinning. “You can sing, kid.”

Brendon darted his eyes away. “Thanks. Thank you.”

“You know any more songs?” Eric asked him.

Brendon looked back up and a pleased smile formed over his mouth. “So many.”

“Tell me one.”

And he did. 

Brendon sang for the whole night, Dallon bringing him drinks every few songs and Brendon would say cheers to something random like the way Eric played that last note or the way that one girl in the red shoes had tap-danced. At one point he almost cheered to Ryan Ross. Ryan Ross who had asked him if he would sing like Sinatra when he got home. _Look at me,_ he almost said, _I am. I'm doing it, Ryan, look._ But he saw Dallon's blue eyes in the crowd and thought it was better if he didn’t. 

Brendon always laughed and the audience always laughed with him. 

He was so beyond drunk by the fifteenth—maybe twentieth—song and Eric informed the audience with a smile that they were taking a brief break so Brendon could go take a piss and drink some water. 

The audience kept laughing at him. 

Brendon stumbled off the stage and right into Dallon’s arms. Dallon, who was laughing at him too, and Brendon chortled back how a baby did when it was learning to mimic human behavior. The sound was wrong in pitch.

“Dallon,” he said as he was helped to stand, Dallon's arm fitting snugly around his waist, his fingers pressed into Brendon's hip bone. “Dallon, I love this place.” 

Dallon snorted, helping Brendon back to his bar-stool next to Jon Walker who stared at him as he sat down. Dallon patted him on the back and said, “I’m glad to hear that, Brendon.”

Brendon sang a note back in reply, a gracious note, and Dallon looked like he could tell that. 

“Let me get you a glass of water, huh?” Dallon couldn’t seem to get the smile off his face. “Make sure he doesn’t fall over, Jon? Would you? I’ll be right back. Just a minute.”

Jon nodded in response and Dallon was gone. 

Meanwhile, Brendon had taken a napkin from the table and was sifting through his pockets with a sense of urgency even he couldn't quite describe. He needed to find something; what was it? A napkin and a— 

“What’re you doing?” Jon asked, glancing over skeptically after a moment of Brendon searching for something he obviously couldn’t find. It clicked in his mind what he was looking for. 

“A pen. I can’t find a pen,” Brendon slurred and grinned at Jon. “I need a pen.”

“What for?” Jon asked. 

“Bit of a secret.”

“Humor me.”

Brendon didn’t say anything back, going through his pockets. He waited a bit before he blurted, “So you think I can sing.”

“When did I say that?” Jon asked.

“With your eyes when you were watching me.” Brendon looked over at him, a hand stuffed in his breast pocket. “I know you think I’m good.”

Jon nodded. “You are.”

“You want me to sing again?” Brendon asked. 

Jon watched him. “I think it could be good for business. They like you.”

“Would you pay me?” Brendon asked. He slowly removed his hand from his pocket. 

Jon said, thoughtful, “I could do that. Might be good having more than Nicole.”

“And I’m good.” Brendon was wearing a cocky sneer. His ego, much like the alcohol, was going to his head. A headache had started at his temples. “I would. If you asked. I’d sing again. I like it here.”

Jon wet his lips. 

“One condition,” Brendon added.

Jon was too eager. “Name it.”

“A pen?” Brendon suggested.

Jon scoffed but he complied and handed over a fountain pen. Brendon shook it for no reason and went to work scratching his message on the napkin. He was happy it didn’t tear under the pressure. He couldn't seem to keep his lines straight. He hoped it was even legible.

“Here.” Brendon handed it over when he was finished. “Mail this for me tonight and I’ll sing free for the first two weeks.”

Jon—the cheap-ass—’s eyes went wide with the prospect of anything for free. He snatched the napkin from Brendon and didn’t even try to hide the fact that he read it. Although Brendon was sure it didn’t make any sense to him. It only made him smirk wider. 

Jon shot his head up. “Mail this tonight?”

“And the first two free of charge,” Brendon affirmed. 

Jon furrowed his brows. “What are you? A pro skirt?”

Brendon winked. 

Jon scowled in deep disgust but he was up off the stool and into the crowd. Off to mail Brendon’s drunk scrawling on a napkin. Brendon sighed in contentment. He wouldn’t remember any of this come the next morning. But he _would_ remember this headache. _Jesus._ It was pounding.

When had Dallon appeared next to him? And why was he trying to press a glass of water to Brendon’s lips? 

Brendon started to move his head back but Dallon persisted and, finally, Brendon conceded and took a sluggish sip.

“Dal?” he mumbled, his mouth feeling stale. 

“Yeah Brendon?” Dallon asked, taking the water away. 

“Can you take me home?" he asked, grimacing. "I feel sick.”

Dallon smiled sadly. “I thought you would. I already canceled your next set. The night’s almost over anyhow. It’s about half-past midnight. Eric says he’s closing out with a ten minute piano ballad. How beautiful, huh?”

“Sure, Dal.” Brendon leaned up against Dallon's body from his seat, resting his head against Dallon's chest. The man was _tall_. He purred, “Carry me?”

Dallon chuckled, shaking his head, doing his best to push Brendon away to no avail. “I knew that third round was a bit much.”

But there wasn't anymore protesting from him when Brendon fell forward into his chest again and, suddenly, he felt one of Dallon’s arms curling around his shoulders and then another sliding up under his legs—the backs of his knees—and he was being picked up easily. Like he was a proper filly or something. 

Dallon wasn’t the dame, was he? Brendon was. 

His head flopped forward back into the warmth of Dallon’s chest and he grinned into Dallon's nice shirt, mumbling, “Thanks, Dal.”

“Of course.” Brendon could feel Dallon’s heart thump unevenly in his chest. He closed his eyes and listened to its beat. Bump. Bum-bum. Bump. Off-kilter by a second. “But only up the stairs. Then I’m putting you down. This might gain a few looks. One man carrying another.”

Brendon only nodded slowly and he dozed off barely as Dallon carried him through the crowd that hadn’t stopped laughing. 

When they reached the top of the stairs, Dallon dropped Brendon to his feet and he was forced to stand on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for supportive comments; I really appreciate it.


	7. I Bet on Pity

Brendon had dried blood in his hair. 

And as Ryan watched him—observed how Brendon moved, how the rifle on his back hit against his spine, how his feet sank in the mud unevenly and he staggered—Ryan understood why the blood was so noticeable to him. 

It wasn’t Brendon’s blood, that he was glad of. That blood belonged to some man he didn’t know the name of. That man's name was something Ryan never would, never needed, and honestly never cared, to know.

Brendon _had_ to shoot him. Had to. 

That man had been so close. Personal. Eye to eye. Brendon had to. 

Or so Ryan kept trying to convince himself. Although, it seemed Brendon had all but come to peace with the realization that he had—indeed—killed a man. 

_Killed._

What a terrible word. 

An ugly, _ugly_ , empty word that didn’t do justice to the deed. 

_Killed a man._ It wasn’t the same saying it as it was being there. Wasn’t the same saying, ‘I watched my friend kill a man’ as it was to see a gun raise, to see a body fall, dripping red. It wasn’t the same to see your friend stand there, silent, and then walk away as if nothing happened. 

_Killed_ was an empty, empty word. 

Ryan hadn’t really seen death up close. A couple of months or so prior he had seen a body. But since then, he’d seen lots of bodies. Seen a few bodies after a fight. But he’d never killed anyone. Aimed his gun, sure, but he always closed his eyes when he pulled the trigger. So he’d never… never actually... He’d never seen one fall. Definitely not at his own hands. 

Not until that man, anger through his entire body it seemed, had lunged at Brendon Urie’s throat. Which he shouldn’t have done. That man didn’t need to. He could have let them walk by, Brendon and Ryan. The fight was done. But he'd lunged. He'd lunged and Brendon hadn’t hesitated. Not even for a second. 

Brendon Urie had been ready to kill.

One shot. 

One head. 

A new ringing in Ryan’s ears and a fresh body on the red-stained dirt. 

And all Ryan had done was stand there, staring with big whiskey-colored eyes, wishing he had some real whiskey to drown the sight in. 

Brendon hadn’t said a word as he stepped over the body, using his bare hand to wipe the blood from his cheek. He hadn’t even tried to get it out of his hair. 

Ryan had stood there, staring down at the body that Brendon had desecrated. A head without a face, merely a gaping contusion where red and black blood oozed from the cracks made in a broken brain.

Ryan just stood, staring at a dead man. A dead man who shouldn’t have needed to die. 

He hadn't known what to say. If he should pray, cry. Praise God that it wasn’t someone he knew instead. Praise God it wasn’t Brendon. Or should he walk away? Like Brendon had. Step over the carcass and carry on. 

He raised his head to see Brendon already a few yards away, leaving to join the rest of the pack of men. Wolves in search of their next hunt. Ryan would hate to be the lame pup they left behind. Or the rabbit they went after.

So he followed after hurriedly to catch up with Brendon, listening to the steady pounding of other feet in the crowd. March to the next town. Kill someone there. March again. 

Brendon was perfecting his murderous method and Ryan was close behind. 

There was a thrum of noise. The pounding of boots, the hoots of laughter, the shrill cry of an argument nearby. Some men talked, bragged, toyed with their rifle straps as they walked. Ryan caught sight of Mike Naran reading his pocket bible. He hadn’t known Mike was religious. 

“You alright?” 

Ryan looked from the word of God to see Brendon staring straight ahead into the pack. 

He was surprised Brendon was willing to speak so soon after. Some men took days to correct that broken piece inside themselves. To get their mouth moving again. But Brendon spoke, willing and loud, and there wasn’t guilt or shame in his voice. It was normal. 

And to Ryan that made it anything but. 

“Me?” Ryan repeated and why was it that his voice sounded shaky? “Am _I_ alright?”

Brendon nodded, casting a sharp glance over. There was a legitimate concern in those wide, black eyes of his. “You’re awful quiet.”

When had Ryan been loud? He shrugged and the strap of his rifle slid on his shoulder and he reached up to rectify it quickly. As though if his rifle strap slipped that would be reason enough to be shot in the face. “Oh. Sure. I’m alright.”

“Okay.” Brendon nodded. He didn’t seem pleased with that answer, however, and his forehead creased. “Just making sure.”

“Well, that’s alright; you don’t have to.” Ryan watched his boots as they marched. What a toy soldier he was, willing to fall into line without complaint. What a toy. What a soldier. 

Brendon frowned and he looked at Ryan like he was an idiot. And hey, maybe he was. Ryan wasn’t really sure yet. “I’m serious you know. Not pulling your leg or anything. I’m actually wondering if you’re alright.”

“And I said I was.”

“Yeah," Brendon said. "But you’re a shit liar.”

Ryan forced a laugh. 

Brendon did his best to mimic the sound but it came out ugly and uncomfortable and he let it die out. There was a pause and Ryan tried to find Mike and his bible again but the crowd had changed and God’s words in a book were long gone. 

“Do you have a bible?” he voiced his thoughts aloud. 

Brendon repeated, obviously confused, “A bible?”

“Yeah.” Ryan nodded, searching the crowd for Mike. “Like Naran has. He carries it around with him; reads it while we walk y'know. Takes notes in it when he can. One of those little books. A baby bible.”

Brendon snickered more authentically at the word choice and Ryan thought that it was good to hear that noise. As though they lived in a different world entirely. One where he didn’t know a plane by the sound of its engine, one where didn’t keep up every night staring at the sky, waiting for the bottom to drop out. A world where Brendon’s gentle chuckles were the only sounds worth hearing. As if they lived in a world away from war. 

“A baby bible,” Brendon reiterated slowly, sounding the words out on his tongue. “Like Mike has?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure," Brendon agreed. "I’ve got my bible.”

Ryan snapped his head back, surprised. He hadn’t really figured Brendon would have actually had one. “Really?”

“Well, yeah.” Brendon nodded, his eyebrows drawn in and furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Didn’t take you for the religious type s’all,” Ryan said to his side.

“Raised Mormon.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “No shit?”

“Nope.” Brendon shook his head and Ryan wished he was smiling. “Devout too. Church every Sunday.”

“You like that?”

“Hated it.”

Ryan laughed and Brendon joined in harmony. He asked, “So you’re not anymore then? Mormon, I mean?”

Brendon shrugged. “I don’t know what the hell I am, Ryan. Mormon. Christian. Jew. I don’t know. I just don’t. But if there is a God, I can say he really doesn’t like me very much.”

Ryan paused. Debated on whether he really wanted to say it. But he wanted it out in the open. He wanted Brendon to know he had seen it first hand. What Brendon had done. “You did just kill a man.”

Brendon stopped. Dead quiet. 

“God tends to frown on that.”

Quiet. Ryan stared Brendon in the eyes. 

“Go to Hell for killing a man, the bible says.”

Brendon blinked a few times and he didn’t look angry or guilty or thoughtful. He looked blank. He said, stiff, “You can go to Hell for a lot of things, Ryan. For instance, having sex with French girls when you’re not married. You and all the men here can go to Hell for that. That and a lot else.”

“Sure," Ryan argued. "But murder isn’t—” 

“So all these men then?” Brendon went on, ignoring the beginning of what Ryan had said. The blankness had faded and given way to a fire in his pupils. “Everyone here. Every single man, including me. Even little Mike Naran with his baby bible, they’re all going to Hell? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Ryan frowned. “No, I’m not—”

“You too Ryan." Brendon pointed a finger right at his face. "This includes you. We’ve all killed people. Don’t you put that evil on me. Don’t you _dare_. If judgment day ever comes, Ryan Ross, don’t you dare say that you deserve Heaven and I don’t.”

Ryan gawked. He hadn’t been expecting that. “I wasn’t saying that—”

“So I shot a man,” Brendon spat and his voice was venom. “You think I don’t feel bad about it? That was someone’s brother, their husband, their son. That was _someone_. But think about how many someones we’ve already killed. Where the hell do you think we’re marching to, Ryan? The fucking sunset? What type of lie are you living? What sort of bullshit that you think _I’m_ worse than anyone else here. He’s not the first. Just the first _you’ve_ seen. So I killed a man. So I did it. _It’s fucking war, Ryan_. I'd get used to it.” 

Ryan hadn’t meant for Brendon to be angry. Or maybe he had. If he had, not _that_ angry. Not so mad that Brendon's neck had gone red and his eyes flamed and his teeth clenched with a snarl. Hadn’t meant to make a monster of a man. Ryan said, raising his hands up, “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. Damn.”

And just like that the anger seeped away. Brendon looked down and puckered his lips. Ryan could tell he was regretting saying anything at all. Did he like the regret? Is that why he had said something in the first place? Or did he want to push Brendon further? Ask questions he didn’t want to answer? Did Ryan want to be mad at Brendon, or for Brendon to be mad with him? 

Just an excuse for the feeling.

Brendon shook his head and took a breath. He rubbed at his face. A face he had previously wiped clean of another man’s blood with his sleeve. The sleeve was open and there was a dried stain on it. Ryan swallowed. 

“No, it’s—” Brendon shook his head more profusely and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean to—It’s alright. That was aggressive.”

“No, no, you’re allowed to be mad. I’m being a bitch,” Ryan tried and he didn’t know why he wanted to apologize to Brendon. Why he wanted Brendon not to be mad at him. They had only known each other for a few months at that point. Why was he so quick to seek this man’s praise?

Brendon choked on a laugh and Ryan smiled like he’d won him over. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

“I know that you—He was right on you.” Ryan sighed after a minute. “And you—”

“I had to.”

“Had to,” Ryan agreed.

“It’s war, Ryan,” Brendon added softly. “I don’t like it any more than you.” 

“No one likes war.”

“You’re right about that.”

A pause. A beat. A heavy breath. 

Brendon drug a hand across his face again, as if to get the blood off some more. It didn’t matter. The red that was left had stained his skin by then. It wouldn’t get out of his hair for a while.

Brendon looked at his hand as if he expected there to be blood and, when he saw none, he still wiped it on his shirt. Get the ghost blood off. He said, “But I shouldn’t have shot him in the face. Shouldn’t have done that. His wife’ll hate me for that.”

Ryan couldn’t help but snort. “Urie, I hate to tell you, but I think his wife won’t be a fan of yours no matter where you shot him.”

Brendon wheezed a strained sound that made Ryan flinch. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Once again, Ryan Ross, you’re right.” 

The boots thundered around them. 

“You wish you hadn’t?” Ryan looked at the sky. “Shot him.”

“Wish I hadn’t done a lot of things,” Brendon answered. 

“Right.” It had been a stupid question. 

They marched to the next French town. Marched and marched just so Brendon could find another man to shoot, another wife to widow, another mother to make cry. They marched and marched just so they could kill. And still Brendon had the nerve to laugh and Ryan had the nerve to smile bashfully when he did. 

Brendon had the nerve to keep dried blood in his hair. 

Ryan awoke from the memory, half a dream and half a vivid retelling of his life, by a pounding on the door. Thud, thud, thud. 

He sighed and reached up to cover his eyes with a hand. _For the love of God._ He had been asleep the whole of two hours. For the first time in maybe two days, he was going to have legitimate sleep. And some asshole had to knock on his door at—

He was surprised the clock said noon. 

It wasn’t noon. There was no way that it was—Noon, really? 

It was the following day to when he had seen Z. It wasn’t supposed to be. It was supposed to be the same night. Maybe he slept longer than he thought. But if that was the case, why was he so tired? If he had gotten the sleep, what was his excuse then?

Oh, great. There wasn’t one. 

Ryan Ross was perpetually exhausted. Perpetually empty. And no amount of sleep could make him feel awake again. Brilliant. That was perfect, wasn’t it? All of this. Z breaking up with him. Z dating (or whatever the hell they wanted to call it) Spencer. Brendon leaving him for Nowhere. Even his goddamn beige ceiling that he wished was blue. It was all too fucking perfect. 

The knocking wouldn’t stop. 

Ryan was starting to get pissed. 

“Gimme a minute,” he shouted out when the knocking wouldn’t cease its incessant rhythm. Beat, beat, beat. Like the person on the outside was trying to murder his door like Brendon murdered men in France. A headache was starting to surface and Ryan groaned, squeezing the sides of his face with both hands, hopeful he could squeeze the headache out of him. “Just a damn minute, would you?”

He figured if this person was in such a hurry to see him, they wouldn’t mind the state of disarray he was in. He hadn’t bothered to change his clothes from Z’s, so he had gone to bed in the full outfit—excluding shoes—and he was all sorts of disheveled. 

He picked at his crinkled white shirt as he clambered from the bed. It didn’t feel right on him, all clean and thin. But the uniform had felt too itchy, too tight. Even the blanket had felt too revealing. 

Ryan didn’t need to be naked to feel stripped bare. 

The knocking hit once more and finally, Ryan managed to step across the wooden floorboards on his socks and tug the door ajar. 

“What—” he started to snap, assuming it was someone trying to sell him a newspaper or a magazine or hell, maybe war bonds even though the war was over. He had expected anything other than Spencer Smith, his eyebrows drawn up and blue eyes sad. Ryan froze. 

“Spencer,” he said.

Spencer let out a shaky breath. “Hi, Ryan.”

The two stood in silence, Ryan on one side of the door, his hand braced around it tightly and Spencer on his porch, arms limp and awkward by his sides. He fiddled with a piece of string hanging from his sleeve and Ryan let his eyes wander to it, distracted, before he snapped them back up. 

“What are you—?” Ryan glanced around the door like maybe Spencer had brought someone else with him. “What are you doing here, Spence?”

Spencer scoffed and Ryan could tell how uncomfortable he was. “What? I can’t see my friend?”

“I didn’t say that.” Ryan shook his head. “I just—It’s surprising is all. I thought—Surely you have work now?”

He wondered vaguely if Spencer was still working down at that bank around the corner. Or maybe it had changed. Maybe Spencer didn’t do that anymore. Maybe he was unemployed. He was in Z’s house the other day, a Wednesday afternoon. So maybe he didn’t have a job at all. Ryan shifted in the door frame. 

“I do a night shift at a 24-hour diner," Spencer supplied. "On the strip.”

“The strip?” Ryan chorused, only vaguely furrowing his brow at the mention of a diner. Spencer could do better; he was better than that. Than some greasy, 24-hour sleazeball of a place. Spencer Smith was a good person. Good people didn’t have to work in places like that. 

“Yeah,” Spencer answered. “Almost done y’know. The last few buildings. It’s all kinds’a pretty at night.”

“I bet,” Ryan said.

"You seen it yet?" Spencer asked. 

"No. Not yet."

Spencer swallowed. "Oh. It's pretty."

There was quiet between them. The two men, long lost best friends divided by war, standing in discomfort on either side of Ryan’s door frame. He should probably invite Spencer inside. He could only assume his friend didn’t come over only to stand on his porch. 

“Do you—” He faltered. “Do you want to come in, Spence?”

“Could I?” Spencer asked. 

Ryan rolled his eyes. “No, I invited you to come in just so I could close the door in your face when you took a step. Yeah. Come on in; I don’t care.”

And the sad thing was, he really didn’t. 

Spencer didn’t look pleased with his remark but Ryan hadn’t meant it as anything other than playful. Alright, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. Maybe there was some malice behind his words. And maybe there was a part of him—a small part—that hoped he really could slam the door in Spencer’s face. But by God, he was just so _tired_. He wanted to sleep. That’s all he wanted. Just some goddamn peace, quiet, and sleep. 

Spencer made himself at home instantly, already very aware of how the house worked and what went where. He made his way inside, looking around as though perhaps Ryan had changed the house in the two and a half days he had been back. 

He hadn’t. 

Ryan followed after him, shutting the door gingerly behind him and he too looked around the house, trying to see it from the outside perspective. Through Spencer’s sad blue eyes. 

Ryan had missed this house. It hadn’t changed at all in three years and he wondered why. He knew a maid had been over to clean it. There wasn’t a spec of dust in the place. Perhaps his father had called someone to clean the house. He figured that was it. Maybe George hadn’t wanted to change anything so it would be the same when Ryan came back and Ryan understood that. He was glad of that. 

The only thing George Ross had done that Ryan was thankful for. Hire a maid to clean his house while he was busy being shot at. Considerate, in actuality. 

He found Spencer in the dining area of the kitchen, sitting at the edge of the table and it looked painfully like he didn’t belong there. 

Ryan advanced into the room cautiously, hands tucked in his pockets, and he couldn’t tell if he was trying to act relaxed or if he was actually alright with Spencer being there. 

No, he most certainly was not pleased with Spencer’s presence. He let his hands slack in his pockets. The air of relaxation evaporated from him and was replaced with a scowl as he walked to join Spencer at the table. 

The kitchen table was small, as Ryan hadn’t ever had any guests over, so he sat at the opposite end. It wasn’t so far away from Spencer. Two feet maybe.

Spencer acted as though it were miles, his eyes flitting over Ryan hesitantly. “I don’t mean to intrude—”

“You’re alright.” Ryan stared across the room at him lazily.

“It’s just that it seemed a good idea to—” Spencer tried. 

“It’s fine Spence, really.” Ryan rubbed a hand on the bottom of his chin. “I don’t mind.”

But he did. He severely minded. 

Spencer shut his mouth. There was only a moment of peace before he attempted to speak again. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“It’s alright,” Ryan returned

Spencer stressed once more, leaning forward, “You weren’t supposed to find out like—”

“I don’t think I was supposed to find out at all,” Ryan couldn't help but snap. 

“How long you been back for?” Spencer asked, a desperate attempt to change the subject. Ryan wondered if he was sweating. He acted like he was sweating. “We didn’t get to talk at Z’s much. She said I should come to talk to you.”

Of course she did. Z was probably hoping that they could see eye to eye again. Ryan didn’t know why, but the thought of Z pitying him—The thought of her telling Spencer to come over and check on him, made his stomach churn. 

Spencer wasn’t looking at Ryan but across the kitchen to the window over the sink and Ryan wondered if he could see anything outside. What was he looking at? Probably nothing.

Ryan himself tried to look anywhere other than what lay in the center of the table, between Spencer and he. Three years of his life. Folded uniform. A duffel beneath the table. A dog tag. And a little green gentleman. He looked anywhere but. 

“Two days or so. And I know we didn’t, sorry.” Ryan flicked a finger beneath his suspenders which had loosened during his nap and he started attempting to tighten them again. He was sure that Spencer knew he was wearing the same clothes as the day prior. He wondered if that made Spencer pity him. 

If Spencer was creating lies in his head about why Ryan would still be in the same clothes. Perhaps Spencer thought Ryan had gotten drunk at a bar after finding out about his girl and his best friend. Perhaps he had gone home to cry and didn’t change out of sheer grief. Perhaps he didn’t have any other clothes. Perhaps Spencer Smith thought he was pathetic. Possibly pitied him.

Ryan was getting angry just imagining Spencer imagining such things. 

“Took a nap,” Ryan blurted and finally, Spencer peered over. “That’s why my clothes are the same. ‘Cause I came home and took a nap. It’s been a while since I slept properly. That's why.”

Spencer blinked and gave him a once over, nodding as he did so. “Oh, right. I didn’t notice.”

Ryan knew he had. Spencer most likely pitied him. He bet Spencer pitied him something awful and he scowled at the thought. 

“You talk to Z anymore? After yesterday?” Spencer asked and Ryan rolled his eyes. Of course that was what he asked. That was why Spencer had even wanted to see him. Because he was worried now that Ryan was in town. Worried about Z and he, love and all that. The stakes it brought. As if Ryan could ever be a threat to him. 

“No," Ryan answered. "She doin’ alright?”

Spencer shrugged and Ryan nodded like that was any answer at all. 

He watched Spencer closely and Spencer tried his best to keep his eyes directed at anything other than Ryan. 

“She tells me you went,” Ryan broke the silence and Spencer was forced to look back over at him. 

“Who did?”

“Z,” Ryan said.

“Went where?”

This conversation felt oddly familiar. 

“To war,” Ryan finished. 

“Oh.” Spencer shifted in his seat. “Yeah. I did.”

“Where was it again?" Ryan prompted. "Where you went?” 

“Italy," Spencer answered. "Salerno, Italy.”

“Sounds pretty,” Ryan mused in a half attempt at a joke.

“It wasn’t.”

Ryan let out a coughing laugh. 

“Where was it you went again?” Spencer asked and Ryan was sure he already knew. He only wanted to hear it straight from Ryan’s mouth. Wanted Ryan to indulge him. 

“Sorry?” Ryan pretended he didn’t understand. 

“Where were you deployed?” Spencer reiterated and he seemed frustrated. 

“Oh.” Ryan picked at his white sleeves beneath the table. “Nancy, mostly. We went around. I couldn’t name every place. Metz and Normandy. I think Normandy for sure. I remember Nancy. And these little places in between. France.”

“Hear it’s beautiful there. In France, I mean.” Spencer didn’t seem too interested in the conversation, staring across the room like he was trying to see out the window.

“I didn’t see a lot of the pretty things,” Ryan admitted, staring down into his lap as he toyed with his sleeves. “There’s not a lot of time to just enjoy France. But maybe I’ll go back someday. Look at it for what it is. Look at all those tiny towns and blinking lights and not have to worry about it.”

Spencer’s eyes slowly came back and it almost appeared like he was interested in what Ryan had to say. 

“I remember there was one night,” Ryan went on. “Just before we came back, you know? And I was up on this—” He tried to mime it out with his hands. “Cliff, and on one side you could see the tents and everyone. And on the other side, you could see this whole town—Nancy—beneath us, with all the lights on. Could live in that moment forever, looking at all those lights. Brilliant.”

He didn’t mention Brendon Urie sitting next to him with drunk, glazed-over eyes, singing Sinatra in a soft tone. He didn’t mention their duet and how hard his heart had beat when Brendon looked at him. He didn’t mention anything important. 

Spencer nodded. “Sounds like it. And the people?”

Ryan smiled crookedly. “Beautiful people in France.”

Spencer chuckled. “I bet.”

“Italian people?” Ryan asked. 

“Assholes, the whole lot of ‘em.”

Ryan laughed. 

“I mean one,” Spencer went on with no invitation to. “Was even prick enough to shoot me. You gotta be a real prick to shoot someone.”

Ryan let his laughter fizzle out. He thought about Mormon raised Brendon Urie, rifle hitting his spine, dried blood in his hair. He gulped. “Yeah. Gotta be a real prick to shoot someone.”

“Guess all us army men are pricks then, aren’t we?” Spencer turned the conversation back around to Ryan and him. Blaming them for all the world’s misfortunes and bad decisions. 

“I know I am,” Ryan joked and Spencer laughed again. He wouldn’t have thought it was funny if Ryan had said, ‘I know you are’ but he could degrade himself all he wanted. Spencer would always find that funny. His failures. Ryan found them funny too. Pitifully funny. 

“It’s a bitch though,” Spencer hummed. 

“What is?” Ryan asked.

“Getting shot.”

Ryan bit his teeth together. That wasn’t a topic he was keen to discuss. “I bet it was.”

“You never—?” Spencer gestured with his head, waving his hand around. Ryan half expected him to mime a gun with his fingers. To make an explosion sound with his mouth. But luckily, Spencer retained at least some class. Though shooting wasn’t exactly a classy topic. 

“No," Ryan ground out. "I never got shot.”

“Feel like you missed out?” Spencer asked. “Went to war and you never got shot? Gotta feel like the odd man out.”

Ryan stared at him, his heart thumping in his chest. “I guess. I never really wanted to get shot.” 

“No one wants to get shot,” Spencer admitted. “But some are happy when they are.” 

“Were you happy when you were shot?” Ryan asked him. 

“No.” Spencer looked thoughtful for a split second. “But maybe it’s good then, isn’t it? Could have been out there longer. No one wants that. Got sent home early.” 

Ryan nodded. “That’s good.” 

“But getting shot isn’t.” 

“No,” Ryan agreed. “Getting shot is bad. But home? Home is good.” 

Vegas was going to be good. Better than Nowhere would have been. Ryan could convince himself of that.

Spencer stroked at his beard, hummed to himself once, and let out a sigh. Ryan sat stone still. He didn’t let his eyes stray to the saluting soldier on his table. 

“Who else knows you’re back?” Spencer asked him. 

Ryan blinked a few times. He didn’t want to say the words ‘no one’ out loud. 

“Me and Z the only people you’ve seen so far?” Spencer clarified.

Ryan tried to think of an excuse. “Only been back two days. Not a lot of time to go visiting.”

“You seen your old man yet?” Spencer wanted to know.

Ryan grimaced obviously and tugged hard at his sleeve beneath the table. “No.”

“You gonna?”

“Probably not.”

“You should,” Spencer told him. “He’ll want to see you.”

“I don’t exactly want to see him.” Ryan folded his arms. 

“Man’s dying y’know,” Spencer grunted. 

Ryan knew that. He didn’t need Spencer to tell him about his father’s condition. The guy had cancer. He had always had fucking cancer. Ryan didn’t care. He didn’t. Part of him wished that man had died while he was away. Then at least he wouldn’t have to see him face to face. If his father had died while he was in France, he wouldn’t have to worry. He would get to take a nice, warm stroll down to the cemetery. He would get to stand in front of a gravestone with his own name on the front and smile. 

‘I’m home,’ he would say. And that would be the end. 

Because alive or dead, his father didn’t care about him. 

“Be pretty shit if you came back and didn’t even tell him. Just let him die thinking you’re dead,” Spencer added and what was this? A guilt trip?

“He knows I’m alive.”

“ _We_ didn’t,” Spencer reminded and _yep_. Most definitely a guilt trip. 

“He would have gotten a notice if I’d died,” Ryan returned. Excuses. 

“So you’re just not gonna see him?” Spencer asked him incredulously. As if he couldn't believe it.

Ryan shrugged. Indifferent. 

“You should tomorrow. Isn’t like you don’t have the time.” And maybe Spencer was right. 

Maybe Ryan _should_ see his dad. If nothing else, just to tell him goodbye. Give him a salute and a 'good luck' on his trip to Hell. If nothing else. 

“Maybe I will," Ryan amended. "Maybe I’ll tell him I'm alive.”

“You’d be a selfish prick if you didn’t.”

Ryan snarled. He was beginning to realize he had missed Spencer. Although he _still_ missed Spencer. Spencer Smith, his best friend since he was five years old. Not whoever the hell was sitting before him now. That man wasn’t Spencer Smith. He didn’t know who the hell it was. 

Everything was different. Far too different. 

Z. Spencer. Even his dad was probably changing. 

His head was pounding to an insane beat. 

“You’d be stupid not to,” Spencer’s voice came again. He was a broken record. 

Ryan forced a laugh. Spencer was right. He was stupid. Ryan did stupid things. Stupid, stupid things. 

But so did everyone else. 

Like petting a dog in a war. Or singing Sinatra on a cliff overlooking a French town. Or hightailing it to Nowhere because you’re too scared to go anywhere else.

“Why’d you come back, Spencer?” Ryan asked and he directed his eyes to the ceiling. The ceiling that he wished had stars and, for a minute, he thought that the way the paint clumped together gave the illusion that there were stars on the ceiling. The fake ceiling stars mocked him from above. 

Spencer tilted his head. He looked different than he had three years ago when he had hugged Ryan tightly goodbye and patted him on the back. His eyes were sunken and grey bags circled them. His smile didn’t curve up so much and his hair looked greasy. 

He looked like he had been smoking a lot. 

Ryan thought vaguely of his own pipe tucked away in his bedside drawer. He hadn’t even bothered to light it up. Maybe a smoke would do him good. Calm him down enough to sleep right. 

“I mean come back to Vegas,” Ryan went on. “After you got shot. Why’d you come back here?”

Spencer blinked a couple of times. Confused. “Isn’t like there’s anywhere else to go.”

That wasn’t the answer Ryan had wanted. That was so far from the answer he had wanted. Because that wasn’t true for him. He had somewhere else to go. Nowhere. And he’d botched it. 

Ryan let out a sigh. He didn’t let his eyes stray to the saluting soldier on the table-top in front of him. 

“Are you happy to be back?” he asked instead and he directed his eyes to the ceiling. It was a question that was nagging him. 

Spencer tilted his head. 

“Happy to be home?”

There was a sort of finality when Spencer spoke. A conclusion he hadn’t gotten to yet. “Yeah. I think I am.” 

And Z thought she was in love with him. 

And Brendon kept dried blood in his hair and Ryan should have gone to Nowhere. 

People thought a lot of things.

There was a silence between them but instead of the boots and Brendon’s laughter, there was Spencer’s pained exhales and Ryan’s own quivering sighs. He should have gone. 

Ryan should have gone. 

He missed Z desperately. Her kind laugh and her smile and her warm eyes. He missed feeling loved. He wiped at his face. The longer he stayed in Las Vegas, the more he wished he had rode that train to Nowhere with Brendon Urie. Stupid boy. Brendon was and so was Ryan. Idiots, the both of them.

Ryan was stupid. He was stupid for ever thinking it was a good idea to come home. He was stupid for thinking anything would be the same. He looked at the toy soldier on his table. It saluted him in silence. 

The worst part was, he missed Brendon. Brendon Urie with his hitching, uncomfortable laugh as they marched, his large black eyes that Ryan could read like a book. Mormon raised, feminine looking, jazz voice Brendon Urie. He missed that man more than he was willing to admit. 

And he hadn’t a goddamn clue what to do about it.

“Right.” Ryan nodded to himself, repeating, “Right. Nowhere else to go anyways.”


	8. Surely Shame

The headache Brendon woke up with was one he was almost positive he was going to remember for the rest of his life. It was incessant, pounding, cruel beyond compare, and—when he opened his eyes—the pain was so severe that he legitimately whined out loud.

 _Dear God,_ he thought, groping at his skull with one hand to keep the ringing in. _What the hell did I do last night?_

It was then that his ears caught the clatter from another room and a tiny male voice go, “Dammit.”

Brendon froze. Perhaps a better spin-off of his previous question, _who_ did he do last night? There was no way he… No. He would never—Well, that wasn’t true. He'd done plenty of questionable things before he went off. But he’d only been back three days; there was no way he was already falling back into old habits. He was better than that.

He wanted to be better than that, anyway.

As he lay there in bed, he tried to go over the possibilities of who was in the next room. Who he had been with the previous nights; what they’d been doing together. The ghost of jazz circled his brain, twisted through his ears. Or maybe that was the real jazz he could hear from his kitchenette. Whoever was in his house had the radio on. And they were humming along.

It wasn’t bad either. A little high for a guy, a little strained, but not bad by any stretch.

Brendon painstakingly raised himself up in bed, squinting his eyes. His bedroom door was cracked open, the entire room in darkness aside from the yellow light pouring in from the hall through the crack.

It was small, his bedroom. Nine by nine feet with a thin, rough feeling bed and a bedside table pressed to it. He had a pair of reading glasses, the frames dusty of three years without use. He hadn’t ever really used them as he wasn’t keen on reading very much, and his vision wasn’t so bad. It was simply that his mother wanted him to have them. In case his vision ever got any worse.

Just in case.

He used to have a flower sitting on the bedside table but it had died and wilted, so all he had now was an empty vase. He looked at it for a moment, considered throwing the vase out too. It had been a crisp white when it was first gifted to him but over the years it had faded to an ugly yellowish cream and there was a chip on the rim. It needed to be tossed.

The dresser was pushed to the side of the room, opposite his bed so when he sat up he could make out his reflection in the mirror. At first, it was blurry but he rubbed at his eyes with a fist and the world cleared.

There he was, an absolute mess of a man, dark hair screwed up and messy, bags beneath his dreary eyes from sleep, his white undershirt rucked up so the bottom of his stomach showed. He must have kicked the blankets off him in the middle of the night. Or he never had them to begin with.

He dragged a hand over his face, trying to smooth down his hair but it sat oddly on his head no matter how he toyed with it, so he let it stay. Next, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, willing the bags to disperse from his eyelids. No such luck.

Brendon groaned and tried to fix his shirt back over his stomach.

He still had on Dallon’s khakis but it appeared that at some point in the previous day he had taken the belt off as it was nowhere to be seen. That was alarming to him and not pleasing in the slightest.

Brendon swallowed, shifting himself around in the bed, feeling around like maybe it had changed. But no, it was his bed and it was the same as the night before when he had lied awake staring at the ceiling trying to sleep. The same night he had gone to The Church for the first time; the same night that Dallon walked him home, smiling like a moron all the way.

Dallon. Where was he? Surely Dallon wouldn’t let Brendon get away with taking a stranger home drunk. Dallon wouldn’t let him do that. So where was he?

The man in the kitchen sang a high, crackly note and Brendon looked to the door. His headache drummed continuously at the inside of his skull but it was getting dimmer, fading away. He felt a small grin tug at his lips.

Brendon should have known. Dallon would _never_ let him do that.

He carefully pulled himself out of bed, joints aching—he must have slept on his side wrong—and tread barefoot across his musty carpet. He peeked his head around the corner of his door and looked through the living room straight into the kitchenette.

There he was, Dallon Weekes, in his undershirt and pants, standing in Brendon’s kitchen. He was next to the radio, which was playing "Sentimental Journey" with Doris Day singing. It was a popular song, Brendon knew, and he liked it alright. A woman’s voice that Dallon was matching almost too perfectly.

Brendon hadn't realized he could sing.

He paused in the open entryway between the kitchen and the sitting room for a second, just listening. His headache was soothing down to a gentle thrum against his brain and he rejoiced in the ease of pain.

Dallon apparently hadn’t changed his pants either, still in the same grey ones with the crease down their sides, wrinkled from sleeping. He had his belt on and Brendon wondered if he’d taken it off earlier and put it back on. His undershirt was tucked into his pants and Brendon marveled at his short-sleeved shirt; that he could stand wearing anything other than a tank top. Brendon grew much too hot much too quickly to wear a sleeved undershirt.

Dallon seemed completely unaware that Brendon was watching him as he purred out the song under his breath, swaying softly to a rhythm different than the one on the stereo.

Brendon smiled to himself. It was good to see Dallon in his element, thinking no one else could see him. It made Brendon almost feel like he was looking in on something he wasn’t meant to. Something Dallon probably wouldn’t want him seeing. But still, he couldn’t find himself wanting to alert Dallon of his presence.

He paused, wondering where Dallon’s real shirt had gone off to and he turned a subtle circle, searching around his house. The singular couch in his sitting room appeared shifted to the side and Dallon’s black and grey shirt was thrown over the back, folded neatly. Upon further inspection, he found a couch pillow propped up on the arm of the chair, another on the floor, and a blanket crumpled on the seat as well. So that was where his blanket had gone off to.

The thought of Dallon staying the night in his house on the couch while Brendon was drunk was enough to make him chuckle, alerting Dallon to his presence and the other man jumped. He stopped singing abruptly as though he hadn’t wanted Brendon to hear and turned around to see him.

Brendon offered a half-wave with two fingers. An empty salute.

“Hey,” he mumbled out and his voice was hoarse, mouth stale.

A smile surfaced on Dallon’s face the moment he gave Brendon a once over, all crinkled tank top, beltless pants, and bed-head. Brendon was positive Dallon was smiling like that because of how terrible he looked. Of course, Dallon would smile if he looked bad.

“Hi,” Dallon returned and his grin was broadening. He dipped his head in his own greeting, a reply to Brendon's tired salute. “Nice to know you’re alive and well.”

Brendon made it obvious he was confused through a hum, wandering through the open sitting room (the only substance of which was a carpet, coffee table, and the couch Dallon had inhabited) to the bar attached to the wall. He sat on the opposite side to Dallon.

Like he was the customer and Dallon was the bartender willing to give a drunk man a melancholy chat.

“I tried to wake you up about an hour ago," Dallon said. "Didn’t budge.”

He smiled fondly as he turned away from the bar to continue with his task. Making coffee and some toast. Brendon frowned for a moment as he wondered where Dallon got the bread from.

“Went ahead to the store,” Dallon added as if reading Brendon’s mind. “I figured you wouldn’t be up for a while; I’d have time.”

That probably explained what woke Brendon up. Dallon coming back and making a ruckus preparing breakfast. Brendon had given him a key before he left so Dallon could water his plants—which he never did anyway—so it was good he was finally getting his use out of it.

“Yeah,” Brendon agreed to nothing.

“You slept like the dead,” Dallon teased and he propped his hip up on the counter and folded his arms, looking at Brendon with a leering simper.

“Felt like it too,” Brendon added and he put his arms up on the breakfast bar, rubbing at his temple with a hand for emphasis. Though it did wonders soothing his pounding skull. “How much did I drink last night?”

Dallon snorted. “A lot, I’ll be honest.”

Brendon groaned, putting his head in his hands. Wonderful news. “I barely remember anything from yesterday.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Dallon returned.

Brendon massaged his forehead. “All that’s coming to mind is—Jon asked which one of us was the girl.”

Dallon’s laugh skipped a beat and he opened his eyes in mild bewilderment. “He asked that?”

“Yeah.” Brendon raised his head to glance at Dallon.

He waited for Brendon to continue and when he didn’t, Dallon bobbed his head in admission. “And?”

“I told him we weren’t together.” Brendon didn’t mention the part where he told Jon that _Dallon_ was the girl. He figured he shouldn’t admit to that. But it was making it increasingly difficult not to smile as he thought about the fit Dallon would make when he found out.

“That’s best.” Dallon nodded knowingly before tacking on, disgruntled, “I don’t know why you didn’t tell him in the first place.”

Brendon watched Dallon turn away from him so he couldn’t catch the other man’s expression. He craned his neck, hopeful for a glimpse, but Dallon was entirely turned away. Brendon scowled and settled back into his seat. “Dunno. Felt it was fun for a while.”

“What?" Dallon glanced back over his shoulder and his grin was positively evil. "Being my dame?” 

“For the record—” Brendon pointed a finger. "You’re the girl.”

“Sure I am; you keep telling yourself that.” Dallon took the coffee pot off, reaching up into one of the few cabinets that Brendon had to retrieve cups. He didn’t have to stand higher on his feet as Brendon did. All he did was stretch an arm up. No hassle and Brendon was incredibly jealous of Dallon’s height at that moment. Dallon, obviously, was oblivious. He said, “Here, have some coffee. Might help wake you up.”

Brendon reached out his hands expectantly for the mug that Dallon passed over to him. He didn’t have many ornate mugs, all his cutlery and utensils being the cheapest things he could find. He only had about three or four cups to his name.

The one Dallon handed him was brown and squarish. Brendon took it without complaint and tried to take a sip, instantly burning his tongue, and quickly retreated. Dallon stayed with his own mug on the opposite side of the bar and sipped at his carefully. He made sure not to get burned.

“I made toast too; you want some?" Dallon asked, something of pride to his voice. "Even bought some margarine for you.”

Brendon nodded in reply. “That sounds good, Dal.”

Dallon had only made two pieces and he put them both on a plate and passed them to Brendon who looked up, brows furrowed. Dallon could see the confusion in his eyes as he shook his head and waved the hand not holding his mug. His excuse turned out to be, “Had an apple on my walk.”

“Look at you." Brendon took a piece of toast. "All apples and walks early in the morning. Living the dream, Mr. Weekes.”

Part of him had wanted to decline the meal; he didn’t want to take everything that Dallon offered him. Didn’t want to give off the impression that he needed Dallon for everything. That he couldn’t function without Dallon by his side. But his stomach was crying out and he had skipped dinner the night before. Not on purpose. Sometimes, eating just slipped his mind. Back in France, meals weren't so consistent. 

He munched at his toast and Dallon smiled at him, pleased that he took what he was given.

“Well," Dallon said. "It’s not exactly morning anymore.”

“What time is it?” Brendon asked, surprised.

“About eleven or so. But I figured you’d be hungry so I went ahead. Just a snack before lunch.” He drank his coffee and sighed into the cup. He seemed satisfied with the drink. Dipped his head to the toast in front of Brendon like he didn’t know what Dallon had been referring too. Brendon wondered if Dallon thought him stupid.

“Can’t believe I slept so long.” Brendon set his toast down, wiped his hand on his khakis, and raked a hand back through his hair, attempting to rectify the mess. “I wish you would have woken me up.”

“I told you,” Dallon replied. “I tried. You weren’t having it.”

Brendon snickered. The image of Dallon tapping him on the shoulder to wake him up before steadily devolving into hurried shakes of his body was enough to make him want to laugh. He said, “Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright.” Dallon waved his hand and took another sip from his coffee. “Figured you needed the rest, anyhow.”

“I drank a lot last night, didn’t I?” Brendon confirmed quietly and there was only a bit of humor to his voice. 

Dallon laughed. “Understatement. I’ve never seen you so wasted.”

"God, I can't believe that." Brendon covered his face with his hands in embarrassment, cheeks hot. “What did I do?”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Oh, it was fine,” Dallon dismissed. “You weren’t any more boisterous than you always are. But you did sing. At The Church.”

Brendon glanced up and the memory was quick to flood back into him; standing on that stage and the microphone in hand as he sang Louis Armstrong and Frank Sinatra. Poured his soul out through song lyrics that weren’t his own.

Dallon could see the panic on Brendon’s face and his smile was shiny and new and ever-so kind. “Don’t look like that. You did incredible. A real pro.”

Brendon didn’t say anything back to that. He couldn’t think of any words to express his gratitude so he just smiled in response. 

“I’m not the only one that thought so either,” Dallon went on after Brendon thanked him wordlessly, saying it like it was nothing—when in fact, it was everything—and sipped aimlessly at his coffee. He looked as though he enjoyed the burn of the beverage significantly more than Brendon had. “People were hollering compliments all the way out the door when you left.”

Brendon let his eyes flicker over Dallon briefly. He hesitated. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah.” Dallon nodded and set his mug down on the countertop. “Said Nicole’d be running scared from a voice like yours.”

Brendon smiled ear to ear. He shouldn’t be smiling so wide, Nicole was a good singer; he shouldn’t be so pleased with her misfortune. If they liked him so much, there was a chance they wouldn’t be so keen on Nicole anymore. But he couldn’t help it. It was flattering.

Dallon appeared pleased and Brendon was sure he knew what he was doing. Buttering Brendon up something spectacular. It made him question why though. _Why_ was Dallon seeking Brendon’s affection? No one could compliment Brendon this profusely unless they had some greater motive at play.

Brendon shifted in his seat and contemplated what grand scheme Dallon Weekes was up to.

“And uh—” Dallon added like he was remembering something for the first time. “Jon said he did what you asked.”

Brendon frowned. “What did I ask?”

“Beats me." He picked his coffee mug back up and took a sip, saying into the rim of the cup, "But he said you better not back out of the deal.”

“Deal?” Brendon chorused, alarmed. “What deal?”

Dallon gave a similarly unhelpful shrug. “I don’t know. But he says you’re singing again.”

“Again?” Brendon repeated.

Dallon took a drink. “For free.”

“Free!” Brendon yelped.

Dallon laughed at the higher register Brendon’s voice had entered. “Jon says that’s the deal you two made. Whatever it was that he did for you, and in return, he gets two weeks of your voice free.”

Brendon blinked a few times; perhaps he could blink enough that it would clear this odd reality away. Not that he didn’t like this reality. He liked Dallon’s broad, clean smile and he liked the praise but singing at the club? For free? Two weeks straight? What sort of a deal did he make? One with the Devil, certainly. Jon goddamn Walker. Devil, alright.

“What’d you get him to do?” Dallon looked and sounded enticed, desperate to know what secret Brendon was keeping. It was a shame Brendon didn’t know it himself.

“I don’t remember.” Dallon pulled a face and Brendon let out a broken scoff. “I swear it. I don’t remember anything after getting up on stage. You were feeding me gin all night.”

Dallon pretended to be offended with the blame placed on him. He pointed a finger. “Not my fault! _You_ kept asking for another round.”

Brendon rolled his eyes, chuckling. “Yeah, but you should know when to cut me off.”

“You’re right,” Dallon admitted. “After you made a toast to that woman’s pregnancy I should have known to stop you.”

“What’s wrong with that?" Brendon reached for his coffee. "Sounds nice of me.”

“Well," Dallon began. "She’s a kiki for one thing and, another, she wasn’t the slightest bit pregnant.”

Brendon dissolved into laughter, covering his mouth in embarrassed shock. Dallon joined him in a pleasured harmony. Brendon had missed this, laughing with Dallon. Really though, he had simply missed Dallon. Plain and simple.

He couldn’t exactly think of anything else in Utah that was worth missing. His parents, sure. Maybe. He wondered if they were still living in St. George. In that same little house in the same little neighborhood on that same little street. Probably. They weren’t the sort of people that would ever leave home. He didn’t blame them. Home was nice.

And for a split second, just a fleeting moment, he was sad he ever left.

But then Dallon was in front of him, laughing a high laugh, and Brendon's attention was drawn back to the moment in reality and he smiled. No. He was glad he’d left.

He was glad he went on a train ride to Clearfield, Utah that one weekend in November. He couldn’t even remember really why he had gone. How old had he been? Eighteen? And he was looking for a new town, a new place to call home. Under the ruse of searching for colleges. His parents always wanted him to get an education. Guess he was a massive disappointment then. For more reasons than one.

He remembered vividly the cool air and the brown leaves nearby. He had made fun by crunching them underfoot. There were a lot of colleges around Clearfield, so Brendon had told his parents he would take the train there, stay in a hotel, and walk or get a lift to the colleges around the area.

Just to look. Because he had _so_ many options. Really, how was he expected to choose?

His parents had pretended to be proud of him and Brendon had pretended to care if they really were or not.

He met Dallon Weekes that weekend. It had been so uneventful the first time they saw one another. Brendon had been in Layton—three miles or so from Clearfield—and he had passed Dallon on campus. Nodded a hello to him and Dallon, all suits and slicked-down hair, had nodded back, checked his pocket watch, and walked faster.

That interaction wasn’t much the beginning of a friendship at all.

It wasn’t until the following day—Saturday—back in Clearfield, when Brendon had been at a drugstore, that a friendship had the means to start. He was restocking on a pack of smokes. And who was there buying a bottle of aspirin? Dallon Weekes, suit and slicked-down hair intact.

Brendon remembered staring for a second, trying to place where the man was from when it had clicked, all so beautifully, and of course Brendon had to blurt out across the store, “You’re a teacher aren’t you?”

Dallon Weekes—although Brendon hadn’t known his name at the time—had looked up from his pill bottle to stare blankly at Brendon. Had frowned, narrowing his eyes and then widening them like there was some joke he wasn’t getting. He asked, “Pardon?”

“At the university,” Brendon supplied and he stepped away from the counter, his pack of camels held loosely in his grasp. “You teach there, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Dallon annunciated slowly. “Forgive me, I don’t know your name. Are you a student?”

Brendon had to laugh then because Dallon looked legitimately concerned that he didn’t know Brendon’s face.

“It’s early in the semester, I’m sorry if I don’t know you,” Dallon tried to apologize, mistaking Brendon’s laugh for offense that he didn’t know Brendon’s name.

Brendon raised his hands up, shaking his head. “No, no it’s alright. I’m not. A student, that is. I’m not.”

“Oh.” Dallon relaxed instantly and he stopped trying to hide his pills in his coat pocket.

“It’s just that I was on campus the other day," Brendon explained. "Saw you and I just assumed that you were—”

“Do you have friends that go there?” Dallon asked, interrupting him, but Brendon couldn’t find himself irritated.

“No," he answered. "I was just visiting. Parents want me to go.”

“Oh, yes, this is the part where I sell the school to you,” Dallon said and Brendon had laughed again. “It’s a beautiful campus and I find that—”

“No, no don't-don’t try to sell it to me,” Brendon chuckled, waving a hand. “It’s alright. I was just looking s'all.”

“Right, alright.” Dallon had nodded once more and the two stood in the drug store in quiet for a moment, before Dallon followed up with, “Can I ask how old you are?”

“Eighteen.” Practically a full-grown man. Basically.

“Right." Dallon's blue eyes skimmed Brendon up and down, inspecting. They flashed and Dallon wet his lips. "You look young.”

“So do you,” Brendon admitted. “If it weren’t for the suit, I’d think you were a student myself.”

“Thank you, I try to stay in touch with my youth.” Dallon fixed his tie and Brendon snorted. “Only my first year teaching.”

“Really?” Brendon fiddled his pack of cigarettes in his hand.

“Mhm.” Dallon beamed as though he was proud of the achievement and Brendon had smiled back.

“So, why’re you getting pain pills?” Brendon asked, an attempt at a new conversation topic. Dallon was attractive enough to have a conversation with. Dallon been about twenty-three at that point in time. The same age Brendon was when he rode the train home from France with Ryan Ross across from him.

Dallon had cocked his head and then formed his lips into a quirked grin. “Well it _is_ my first year. The headaches are a bitch at first, the other teachers keep telling me. But they’ll fade in time. For now, though, I need something to dull the pain.”

“What do you teach?” Brendon wanted to know.

“English.”

“Fancy,” Brendon teased.

“Thank you. I like it.” There was a smaller pause that time as Dallon had asked, “And you? Why the smokes?”

“Calms me,” Brendon answered. The grimace that Dallon returned made Brendon tilt his head in question. “What? You don’t like smoking?”

“Makes my voice rough.” Dallon felt at his throat for emphasis and Brendon watched the movement eagerly, biting the inside of his cheek. Dallon hadn't seemed to notice. “Can’t have a rough voice when you’re lecturing five hours a day.”

“Huh." Brendon puckered his lips. "Doesn’t do that to me.”

“I smoke in my off-hours though,” Dallon went on. “When I get the time.”

Brendon smiled, raised the pack to Dallon’s line of vision, and shook it so the cigarettes inside rattled. He asked, definitely a flirtation by anyone standards, “You got time?”

Dallon had laughed. “Sure. Sure, I’ve got time.”

Brendon remembered that Dallon had forgotten to buy his aspirin before they left the building. It was interesting, thinking back to that Dallon Weekes and then comparing him to the man before Brendon in his kitchen six years later.

The man feeding him breakfast in his undershirt and slept in pants with fluffy hair and a broad smile to match the rosy cheeks.

“How was my couch?” Brendon asked, back in the present, gesturing with his head to the mess of blankets in his sitting room.

Dallon raised his eyebrows and then instantly dissolved into a subtle grimace, flustered that he had been called out on his behavior. He mumbled, “Sorry about that; I thought I’d have time to sort things out before you woke up.”

“Sure.” Brendon smirked at him.

“I did!" Dallon swiftly exclaimed, urgent in the way he straightened. "I was gonna fold the blanket, put it back in your room, fix the cushions, make you breakfast, get dressed and leave.”

Brendon almost laughed at what Dallon had said before he paused on the last words. He repeated, “Leave?”

Dallon stopped. Fiddled with his cup. Scratched at the sides of it with his fingernails. “Yeah. I mean, I figured you wouldn’t be so excited to wake up from that sorta bender to find me just—" He gestured to the couch. "Making myself at home.”

Brendon shook his head. “I don’t mind.”

“I know that," Dallon returned. "But I thought it’d be better for you to wake up on your own, eat some breakfast I left or something, and go about your day. I didn’t mean to be here all y’know… sloppy.”

Brendon laughed, relaxing before a small realization dawned on him. He narrowed his eyes. “Wait. If you didn’t wanna be here, why’d you stay over in the first place?”

Dallon stood there for a second, silent, and it was obvious he didn’t have an answer prepared. He fumbled, “Uh—”

Brendon tilted his head, signaling that he was ready for an answer whenever Dallon was willing to give it. The flustered air reflected the same expression Dallon had had when he and Brendon smoked together for the first time all those years ago. Between two houses, a block or so away from the drug store, Brendon leaning against the brick wall and Dallon covering his mouth with a fist as he hacked up clouds of grey.

Brendon could picture Dallon then, coughing and beating his chest, while Brendon had only looked on at him, saying, “You act like you’ve never taken a drag before, professor.”

Dallon had beaten his chest with a fist. “No, I have it’s just—" A cough. "It’s just been a while.”

Brendon smirked. “Sure it has.”

Brendon remembered that they had talked aimlessly that evening, about everyone and everything. Dallon had interested him, to say the least. What with that stiff posture and prim look with something scared in those blue eyes. Something innocent. 

Worth taking.

Brendon had felt practically like a predator that evening when they smoked, skimming Dallon all over with his eyes. Wondering if he had a wife. Taking note of his long, bare fingers. No wedding ring. Perhaps a girlfriend.

“Does your dame like it?” Brendon had asked from the wall, taking a short drag, and Dallon looked up, still puffing. “That you don’t smoke so much.”

“Oh,” Dallon laughed and fog came past his lips with it as he shook his head. “Don’t have a dame.”

“How come?” Brendon asked. He gestured with his cigarette. “Fella like you? Teacher at a university, wearing suits. Girls gotta love someone smart like you.”

Dallon Weekes had laughed again, although more uneasily that time. “Don’t really have time these days. For a girl.”

“Huh.” Brendon sucked on his cigarette. He didn’t cough as Dallon had, but he’d been smoking for a long time at that point. Since he was about twelve or so, he had been smuggling his father’s cigarettes from the shoebox beneath his parents' bed. He grinned. “Shame that.”

“Real shame,” Dallon agreed.

“So you don’t smoke.” Brendon collected the information, carefully storing it away in the back of his head. Dallon watched him and nodded back in agreement with the statement. He didn’t. Brendon asked, “You drink?”

“Course I do,” Dallon said. “Who doesn’t?”

“I say the same thing about smoking.” Brendon inclined his head. “But apparently there are rebels to the cause.”

“Well," Dallon informed. "I’m very passionate about my alcohol.”

“Most men are.” Brendon had looked at him a moment, surveyed his options before asking, boldly, “There’s a bar around here, right? Minx Alehouse maybe? I don’t remember exactly. You care for a drink? My treat.”

Brendon had known the name. A young man like him, he wasn’t worried about throwing the names of gay bars around. And when he was eighteen, it wasn’t so hard for him to find a gay bar when he was in a new place. Almost too easy, in fact.

The way that Dallon raised his eyebrows in surprise insinuated that he was familiar with the true nature of the place as well and Brendon was sure he had made a tragic mistake. He waited for the insult, the accusation that he would have to pretend he didn’t understand.

But Dallon settled, blinked a few times, looked Brendon over contemplatively and said, “Not much into fag bars, I'll be honest.”

Brendon froze. Swallowed. Feigned surprise. “Is that what it is? I didn’t know. Never been here before.”

Dallon had trained his eyes on Brendon, raising an eyebrow, and the young man had felt tiny. “It is. But I’m sure you knew that.”

Brendon had just stared at him. Waited, waited.

“You’re sort of young, aren’t you?” Dallon asked. “To be drinking.”

“Eighteen. I’m allowed,” Brendon had said. He was allowed to drink. He was allowed to be his own man.

Dallon smirked. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” Dallon thought about it. “Minx you said?”

Brendon wet his lips and nodded, still hesitant.

“They’re liquor tastes like shit. C’mon. There’s one a bit closer to Salt Lake," Dallon offered. "If you wanna try that?”

There was a beat, a smile with white teeth on Dallon’s part. And Brendon had watched that smile, surveyed it over. Definitely something worth taking here. Or so eighteen-year-old Brendon Urie had thought. Not that he ever followed through with it. They’d gone to a bar that night, sure, and there was harmless flirting involved but that’s all it was.

Harmless.

At the end of the night Dallon and Brendon had gone their separate ways, Dallon telling Brendon to find him if he ever came back to Layton or Clearfield. They could drink again. And when Brendon had moved by himself over to Clearfield, just to get away—and Clearfield had seemed the best place to do that—he had met up with Dallon again.

He was a good friend, Dallon, and Brendon had learned that quickly. Someone he didn’t want to waste. 

_Collect him,_ Brendon had thought, _collect him and keep him in your pocket. Save Dallon Weekes for a later date._

As he looked at Dallon across from him in the present, he knew what his younger self had seen. But Brendon was too old to try and play games with someone else’s heart. Too old to keep collecting. 

Younger Brendon wasn’t willing to hesitate. He was a boy then. Boys did stupid things. Brendon liked to think he was growing smarter as he aged. But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was as stupid as he had always been. Who knew. Only time could tell with a thing like that.

Granted, his ideas of love had changed vastly over the last three years. A homosexual couldn’t be so whimsical about his attraction in the war. So he had to be more selective about the people he chose to love. Well, not exactly 'love.' _Love_ was a harsh word. Brendon really wasn’t sure of the definition of love. And he wasn’t so quick to find out.

He had time.

“Just worried s’all,” Dallon finally said, quickly drinking his coffee in an attempt to avoid questioning.

Brendon snapped back to the present conversation and his eyes came back to Dallon Weekes, the man he had collected, staring at him with those big, nervous blue eyes as he sipped at his coffee. Brendon held Dallon’s gaze a mere moment and Dallon was the first to glance away, into his coffee cup. As though he was looking for answers. Brendon should have told him to stop it. No answers in a coffee cup.

“Worried?” Brendon watched Dallon watch his coffee. “About me?”

“You were very drunk.” Dallon glared down into his cup and Brendon swore that there was a hint of red to his cheeks. It only made him laugh.

“Thanks, Dal,” he said.

Dallon glanced up and his smile was fearful. “Anytime. Anything.”

Yeah. Brendon couldn’t keep the grin off his face. He could figure love out. 

He had time.


	9. Still Life Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion/mild description of child abuse (which was very common in the 1900's). A heads up.

It took a few days for Ryan to muster up enough courage to see his father. 

Most of those days consisted of him sitting next to his phone and wondering if Z or Spencer would ever care enough to call. Which was sad, he would admit that. The other majority of it was spent debating on whether or not to call _them_. Equally as depressing. The answer was, of course, always no. 

It wasn't as if he really _wanted_ them to call anyhow. Not like it would have done anyone any good. 

It wouldn’t make Spencer any happier to talk to him and it had only made Ryan angry when he spoke to Spencer. Only made Z guilty when she talked to Ryan and only made Ryan sad when he talked to her. So why did he want to speak to them, when all it did was make him emptier and emptier?

Perhaps it was because there wasn’t anyone else to go to. Not any more friends for him to gain forgiveness and affection from. Is that what he wanted? To be forgiven? No one knew what to forgive him for. No one knew what he had done. He barely understood it himself.

He hadn’t seen anyone else other than Z and Spencer. No one but his own reflection in the mirror. 

He had been recognized at the grocery store after a few days back; a woman at the counter who knew his father. That felt even worse than talking with Spencer and Z, having some old broad say to him, “aren’t you George’s boy?” and Ryan had been forced to nod. 

He wished he had shaken his head. He didn’t want to be known by that man. 

He would always look like his father, physically, but when he was his own man—he lived alone for Christ's sake, he owned a house—he was less than pleased with being tied to another person. Ryan Ross wasn’t anything like his father. He wasn’t. And he didn’t want to be. 

He should have shaken his goddamn head. 

So—as he sat next to his phone in his house, alone, elbow propped up on the table, head in his hand, knowing that the phone would never ring—he had an inkling suspicion of what he needed to do. 

Was closure the right word? Probably not. _Closure_ felt too final. Too reassuring. There wouldn’t be anything reassuring in this visit. 

He couldn’t think of a conversation with his father that didn’t go absolutely horrible in the past. Never a conversation that hadn't ended in screaming. A time where he hadn't walked away with red-rimmed eyes and a tingling sickness in his gut. He couldn’t think back to a single _good_ time with that man. And he knew—he _knew_ —nothing good could come from this. He knew that. 

And yet still, he went. 

He could blame it on Spencer. Spencer was the one who said he should. But it wasn’t Spencer’s shoes carrying him around his house, getting dressed. It wasn’t Spencer’s shaking hands that fixed his vest. Wasn’t Spencer’s tripping fingers that tied his shoelaces. It wasn’t Spencer that walked out the door. And it certainly wasn’t Spencer who put a tiny green soldier in the inside pocket of his jacket. Just for luck. No, that wasn’t Spencer. 

That was all Ryan. 

He walked back through Vegas, just like he had when he went to see Z, but this time he didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t afford the hesitation. He wasn’t that weak. He wouldn’t be. Ryan Ross was a strong man. He was, he was. All he had to do was keep telling himself that. Then he might believe it. 

He walked straight there. Didn’t turn down side roads. Didn’t venture to the strip. Didn’t try to find Pete Wentz and his toy store again. He marched—the same as he had with Brendon Urie—to George Ross’s house. 

That was the only moment of hesitation. Standing at the end of the driveway that didn’t have a car. That was the weakness cracking through. 

He wondered if his father had sold it. The car. There was no way he had the money to keep it, especially after Ryan left. He remembered that car; remembered watching it pull into the driveway and going out to the backyard so his father wouldn’t know he was home. 

That 1931 Cord L-29 Cabriolet that his father loved more than he could ever love Ryan. 

Ryan wasn’t allowed to touch that car. Not even a poke, a prod, a pat. Nothing. He would have found some way to screw it up. He always did find a way with his father's possessions. Even if he hadn't meant to. His ruined hands found ways. 

He was glad the car wasn’t in the driveway. He was sure if it had been, he would break his foot kicking it. God, he wanted to destroy that car. He wanted to burn it to ground, smell the rubber of those tires melting. Watch the paint peel. 

He wanted to _kill_ that car. 

But apparently someone beat him to the punch; it wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He stood in the driveway, flashing his eyes across it, looking for that piece of scrap metal that wasn’t anywhere in sight, before he turned back to the house. It was a quaint little thing, and Ryan was sure that from the outside perspective the house even looked cute. 

He couldn’t find the appeal. 

The shutters were splintered and it was in desperate need of a new coat of paint. The shingles on the roof looked lose and Ryan was sure that if it ever rained even slightly too hard, they would slip and crash to the ground. The hinges on the door were rusty, Ryan noted when he got close enough, and the steps creaked when he stepped on them. 

That house was falling apart. Only a few more years before it would completely give way. Fall to shambles and sink into the ground. Ryan knew his father would go with it, and he wasn’t the slightest bit perturbed knowing. 

He tapped his shoes against the landing before the door, swayed back on his heels, dipped his hands into his pockets and took a sharp breath. 

He could do it. 

He wasn’t a selfish prick. And he wasn’t a coward. And he wasn’t stupid. 

He could do it. He could. 

Why weren’t his legs moving?

The door was the same. But the rest of the house... But the peeling paint and the loose shingles. How dare they change. How dare his father think he was allowed to destroy everything about this house. The right to let it all fall by the waistline. How _dare_ he think he had the right to die. 

Ryan clenched his fists and unclenched them in his pockets before he raised one to the door. His fist was shaking and he cursed himself for it. He was weak, wasn’t he? So terribly weak and this just showed it in a better light. 

Everything he had gone through. Three years of it. Three full years. Hell, he had watched people die. He had watched his best friends _kill_ people. Real-life people. Dead. So why were his hands shaking at the door of his childhood home? Why was _this_ what got to him?

War was scarier than this. Or maybe it wasn’t, and he was merely as pathetic and pitiful as both Z and Spencer thought him to be. Most likely.

What would Brendon Urie say to him now? Would he think Ryan just as paltry as Z and Spencer did? Just as his father had always thought him to be. Or would Brendon understand that there were scarier things than war? Brendon was probably the only one who would. 

Not that he had ever told Brendon about his father. Brendon had never told Ryan about his, so he hadn't returned the favor. But Brendon knew Ryan wasn’t so fond of his father and Brendon hadn’t seemed so fond of his. 

Ryan wondered what it was like to have a Mormon father. A father who cared what you did. Just wanted you to see it through. Brendon had said he felt like he was being smothered. Ryan would rather be smothered any day over being left alone to rot in the backyard while his father drank beer in his car. 

The only time his father ever seemed to care about him was when he did something wrong. And that had been all too frequent. Everything Ryan did, it seemed, was the wrong thing. 

He wondered what his father would berate him for this time. What act he hadn't been able to perform in the last three years. Three years was a long time, his father could probably come up with a lot. 

Might as well get it over with. Shouldn’t waste any more time.

He beat the door with his fist and retracted immediately after. Held his breath his chest. Hoped he could hold the air in long enough that it would be enough to make him pop. 

Pop. Pop. 

Creak. 

The door opened and Ryan let out the air before he went purple. 

No immediate concern. No scared eyes. No covering the mouth with his hand. George Ryan Ross II didn’t do any of that. He didn’t act as sad as Z had and he didn’t act as worried as Spencer. George Ross acted as indifferent as George Ross always did when it came to his son. 

His father looked pale and his cheeks were hollowed significantly more than they used to be. Still, though, his shoulders were broad and he was taller than Ryan. No matter how much weight he lost, how many more bones showed through his pasty skin, he would always be bigger than Ryan. 

Ryan tried his best not to shrink under the gaze. He stood as tall as he could, stared his father down, and wondered vaguely if he should have worn his uniform. 

The way his father surveyed him up and down with scrutinizing eyes insinuated that he should have. At least with the uniform, he was worth something. Even his dog tag alone would have been a step up. Then he could have shown his father a necklace with his own name on it. George Ross. The name they shared. The name Ryan always resented him for. 

“Ryan.”

It wasn’t a question like it had been from Z. It was a statement and Ryan nodded. His father knew who he was. There was a moment of quiet between them as his father stared at him. Ryan was _really_ starting to wish he had worn his uniform. 

“What’re you doin’ here,” his father asked and there was no emotion to his voice. 

Ryan swallowed. His voice was halting. “Spencer said I should come.”

“Huh,” his father grunted out and Ryan licked at his lips. George Ross furrowed his brow in thought, opened his mouth, and said in a bland way, “When'd you see him?”

“Few days ago,” Ryan returned.

“How long you been back then?” It wasn’t a question his father really cared to know, Ryan was sure of it. It was simply the one that seemed the easiest to ask. And that was most likely what their following interaction would be. One word replied and questions no one actually cared to know the answer of. 

“A while,” Ryan said. 

George peered him over. Snorted. “Musta been. Look awful comfy there.”

God, Ryan should have worn his uniform. He should have, he should have. Why hadn't he? Moron.

Ryan directed his eyes to the ground, picked at the buttons on the front of his white shirt. He had plenty of outfits, he didn’t know why he kept choosing the same one. A uniform of a different kind. A uniform for a different sort of war. 

He didn’t say anything else to his father—nothing worth saying to that man—and his father pursed his lips and nodded. There was a pause before his father turned to glance back through the open door into the house. And then, without another word, he wandered back inside.

George hadn’t closed the door so Ryan assumed that was his invitation to follow. 

He didn’t have to though, he reminded himself of that. He held no obligation to his father. He had done what Spencer suggested. His father knew he was alive. He didn’t need to go inside. He could turn; he could leave. But still, stupidly, he stayed. He would always stay, wouldn't he?

He followed George into the house without a word, gently shutting the door behind him with both hands. He didn’t take off his shoes, didn’t feel any guilt at mucking up his father’s floorboards. He tread over them in his nice shoes, the same ones he had worn when he was with Z, and took in a shaky breath. 

The house almost felt like too much. 

He remembered the house. Remembered playing with a yo-yo in the middle of the kitchen or the living room. Walking it like a dog around the one level house. He had been obsessed with that stupid yoyo in ‘31. Played with it all year until his father came home one night and took it from him. 

He wondered where—like the car—his yo-yo had gone. Even if he knew, would he want it back?

As he walked further into the house the world felt increasingly smaller. Like he had never left. Like he had never gone to Europe. Never Nancy or Normandy or Metz. He hadn’t ever gone anywhere other than this tiny two-bedroom house with loose shingles and cancer in the air. 

His leg ached as he entered, the small limp he had feeling a hundred times worse than it ever had. A limp from no war he had ever fought. Just the war of domesticity. The one his father always challenged him to. A war for no cause but his need to fight. Something Ryan couldn’t ever seem to win. 

Did he want to win the war? He had asked himself that simple question a hundred times. Did he ever even try? No. He let this happen to himself. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was special. 

Everyone beat their sons. 

It wasn’t some taboo subject. Even Spencer’s dad had smacked him with a belt on the backside a few times. Discipline. That was how you parented. And Ryan had never thought anything of it. Never thought it was anything worse until he was eighteen, sitting in the kitchen. Told his father he wasn’t going to work for him. Told his father he wanted to go to school when he got older. Wanted to be somebody. Live a life worth living. 

And his father, all stinking breath and rage, had broken a kitchen chair over Ryan’s leg, half-shattering one of the bones within. And his father told the doctor, who had to set the bones right again, that Ryan had fallen. The oldest excuse. He hadn't even tried to come up with a better lie. He was a shit liar anyway, just like Brendon knew Ryan to be. Perhaps he and his father weren’t so different after all. Liars, both of them. Shit too. 

The lying had made Ryan realize that perhaps his predicament wasn’t as normal as he had previously thought it to be. And when he had gone back to school, he had lied again. Spencer thought he was extremely cool for getting into a fight. Ryan never specified who with. 

Spencer still didn’t know the truth. 

No one knew exactly how Ryan had broken his leg. No one cared enough about him to ask and he hadn't cared enough about anyone to tell them. Not even Z had asked him. That was just how Ryan came. A toy soldier. Broken before you even had the chance to properly play with it. 

Brendon hadn’t asked so explicitly. Hadn’t asked, ‘what happened to your leg?’ but once he had given Ryan a once over. Once, they had been running and took shelter in a small home, a home no one lived in. So a house. They hid in a house. 

Brendon had ducked down, held his helmet on with one hand and his rifle in the other. Shifted against the wall as he sank to sit, squeezing his eyes closed tight. 

“You’re slow,” Brendon had said, out of breath and sucking dirty air into stressed lungs..

“I have a fucked leg,” Ryan heaved back. 

And that had been the end of it. Brendon hadn’t asked him anymore about his leg and Ryan hadn’t expected, nor had he wanted, him to. That was the end of the mystery about Ryan Ross’s leg. Some legs were just fucked. That’s how things go. 

He entered further into the house, listening to the slow click that the door made behind him when he closed it. He hated that house. And he hated the new kitchen chairs he could see in the dining room. And he hated his father, not even caring enough to look back at him, simply making his way to his armchair in the living room. 

The man sat in front of the television. Ryan remembered when they first got that T.V. Back in ‘32, the year after he lost his yo-yo. Something else for him to place his attention on. Something else for his father to tell him he couldn’t have. 

Ryan didn’t sit down, instead opting to lean against the wall across from his father, beside the T.V. with his arms folded. He looked for any stars on the ceiling but there were none. He knew that. Still, he didn’t take his eyes away. 

“So you’re alive then,” his father said.

Right into it, alright. Ryan glanced over to his father. Tried to gauge his emotions but he got nothing. A blank slate, nothing worth painting over. 

“I am,” Ryan returned. 

“You get any medals,” his father asked. 

Ryan wished he had his uniform more than ever. He shook his head slowly. None to mention. 

“Shame.” His father was staring him down. Sharp. “Ain’t worth shit then.” 

Yes, Ryan was shameful. And no, he wasn’t worth shit. 

“How long’s it been?” his father asked. 

“Three,” Ryan said.

“Years?”

Ryan nodded and his father whistled. 

“Long time, huh?” the man asked. 

Ryan nodded again. He wasn’t required to speak.

“Where’d you go?” his father asked.

Ryan's heartbeat was stuttering. His voice was a whisper. “War, Dad.”

“I know that fathead,” his father’s voice sounded harder, raised, and Ryan grit his teeth. “I meant where.”

Ryan kept his teeth ground together. “France, Dad.” 

Ryan did not want to have the same conversation with his father that he'd had with Spencer. He did not want to have that conversation more than once. And he didn’t want to have the same conversation that he had with Z. He didn’t want to have a conversation at all. He wanted to hightail it out of that house without a second thought. That was what he wanted. To run like he always had. 

“How’re you feeling?” Ryan tried to avert the conversation elsewhere. 

“Shit.” His father spat at the ground. 

Ryan grimaced in disgust, shifting on his heels. “Spencer said it was bad.”

“Can’t do much of anything anymore,” his father lamented. “I needed you around. Woulda been more help than nothing. I needed you Ryan, where the hell were you?”

Since when had his father needed him? Ryan kept his eyes firmly on the ceiling. They were itching. “War, Dad.”

“Too long,” his father grumbled. The chair squeaked when he moved and Ryan flinched.

“I know,” he said.

“I coulda died by then,” his father went on. Another guilt trip, but this one wouldn’t get Ryan. His father dying would never make him guilty. “Hell would you have done then? If I'd died. Hell would you have done?”

“Gone to the funeral probably,” Ryan replied quietly. Images of gravestones and coffins danced through his head. 

“What?" Ryan’s father was leaned back in his chair and he made a coughing sound deep in his throat. He beat his chest with a fist. "That’s all you’ve got to say?” 

Ryan took a heavy breath into his chest. “What do you want me to say?” he asked in that same small voice. 

His father looked mad. It was obvious to Ryan that his father didn’t know what he wanted to hear. He only wanted to be mad at Ryan no matter what he said. That was how it had always been. 

“You know we all figured you were dead,” his father grunted and reached up to scratch at his neck and the side of his face. 

Ryan nodded. “That’s what Z and Spencer said.”

“So you didn’t write them either?” His father was glaring out of the corners of his eyes. 

“Would you have wanted me to write _you_?” Ryan asked and he couldn’t keep the venom from his voice. 

“No. But that girl was always complaining.” His father sniffed. “Your gilly. All the time over here, all whiny. ‘You got any letters?’ she’d ask me. Right fuckin' pain. Wish you woulda kept her off my back.”

Ryan stared at him, his eyes wide. “She wanted to see if I was alright, Dad.”

“Like I knew!” his father snapped.

“You’re the only one who would,” Ryan argued back in a hiss. He tried his best to keep his voice level. His fists were clenched. 

“So, what? Is she happy then? That you’re back?" George asked. "Will she leave me the fuck alone now?” 

“No I—” Ryan glanced away and wet his lips. This wasn’t a conversation he was willing to have. He didn’t want to talk to his father. He didn’t. He wanted to run. “That didn’t work out. She’s—We’re not…”

His father didn’t even let him finish, only let out a hacking laugh that sounded more like an attempt to vomit than anything else. Ryan cringed back, scowling. His father cackled. “Dang! The bim dropped you didn’t she?”

Ryan's skin prickled. “Don’t call her that.”

“That damn floozy chucked you out! How’d you fuck that one up, huh? How’d you manage that?” His father was shrieking and Ryan gritted his teeth, digging his fingernails into his palms. 

“She’s not—” he started.

“Lemme guess." His father really seemed to be getting a kick out of the whole situation and Ryan’s stomach bubbled with hate. "Didn’t wait up for you, huh? She didn’t wait.” 

Ryan swallowed. “She—” 

“Don’t tell me you _did_! Don’t tell me you spent three years waiting for that girl!” There was a distinct shift to his father’s voice. Not pity, nor surprise. Disgust. _How pathetic,_ he must have thought. 

Ryan was trembling. 

“And you came back—” His father couldn’t seem to shut up. “Not _half_ the piece of shit you used to be and she knew it! She knew you weren’t worth it! That bitch knew that you weren’t—”

Ryan had lunged out to punch him before he could say another word. Just shut up. _Just shut up._ That was all he wanted. Although, what he hadn’t expected was for his father to see the hit coming. Didn’t expect for his father to catch him by the wrist, twist his hand down, and hammer him in the side of the face. 

Just like it’d always been. 

Ryan tumbled to the side, his ears ringing with a different tune than when he had heard gunshots. His brain was fuzzy with a different sort of fear. His face throbbed as he hit the ground, headfirst, his skull cracking on the hardwood floor. He squeezed his eyes shut, whining out a high pitched, pained sound. One he couldn't keep in. The sound a weak man made.

He watched as the green soldier in his pocket, the soldier named Brendon, fell from his shirt and clattered with tiny plastic clicks across the floor. Fell out just so it could watch his demise. 

Holding the side of his face with one hand and propping himself up off the ground with the other, he could see his father standing, his purpose obvious, and Ryan’s eyes widened. 

He was up in a second, staggering backward, and his limp hurt worse than ever as he tripped over his own feet. He couldn't stop quivering. All over. Terror. 

“Can’t even throw a punch,” his father wheezed in a snarl. “What sort of war did you fight in, boy? Didn’t even teach you how to punch like a fuckin' man.”

Ryan held his hands up—surrender, white flag, _help_ —and continued to back up. He couldn’t think of anything to say in retaliation. All he could do was turn. Turn and run like he had wanted to in the first place. Right out the door and onto the steps, tripping down them and falling on his hands. His palms scraped across the asphalt and red beaded up from the thin slices the ground made on his skin. The pain sprouted but he ignored it. He had to get away. He had to get away.

He didn’t stop. He ran. 

But he could hear his father from inside the house clear as day. 

“You’re no man! What the hell sorta war did you fight in!" his father's voice screamed. "What kind of war did you _lose_!”

Ryan sprinted down the street at the fastest speed he could muster and his head was spinning and his ear was ringing where he had hit the floor and all the nerve endings on his body were set aflame. He was burning, burning, and there was no way to put himself out. He just had to wait out the fire. 

He didn’t stop to try and find Z or Spencer. He didn’t stop to find anything. Anyone. 

No one knew Ryan Ross. No one could help him. No one knew what war he fought. Not even Spencer. They would never understand. It wasn't their fault. They just never could. A lost generation in war and Ryan had every single one of their ghosts rattling around his chest, begging to be released. 

It was about a mile down the road that he had to stop, his heart beating much too hard to keep him going, and he slowed to a half jog. Finally took into account the throbbing sensation in his hands and looked down at his palms. The bases of them were bloodied and he tried futilely to wipe them on his pants, smearing dried crimson across his slacks. 

Coward, coward. 

His heart continued to beat erratically as he took into account the warmth running down the side of his face; he must have hit his head too hard on the ground when he fell. He reached up to his forehead and felt at the blood matted hair that hung there. He could feel the indention of a slice in his scalp. A thick line of red trickled down his skin, burning wherever it ran. 

His eye was drumming with pain and he figured a bruise would be quick to form there. He looked down at himself and, oh, he must have skinned his knees too. There was a hole in his slacks where his knees had hit the asphalt of his father’s driveway. 

He was a mess. A disgusting, atrocious mess. A pathetic, cowardice mess. 

Ryan needed to get home. Take him away from this place. From this life. Take him away, for God's sake, _please_. 

He ran the rest of the way to his house and tugged the door open, stumbling inside on fawn-like legs, nearly falling over again. At first, he thought he had merely tripped over himself once again, but upon further deduction, he realized that he had fallen over a note pressed beneath his door. 

Ryan paused, his entire body still trembling with pain, before he bent down to retrieve the letter that someone had slid into his home. It was a small envelope and he didn’t recognize the stamp, nor did he recognize the writing that scratched ‘Ryan Ross’ on the front. Not George Ryan Ross III. No. _Ryan._

He frowned, tearing it open with shaky fingers and dropping the now empty envelope to the floor. He squinted in confusion. _What the hell is this?_ he thought, _a napkin?_

And it was. 

It was a ratty-looking napkin with scribble style writing on it. The words were smudged at the corner and it was obvious that the person who wrote the note had been shaking too. Just like Ryan was as he held it. 

It was his own address scrawled on it, and another address that Ryan didn’t know. He shook his head in confusion. _Seriously, what the hell is this?_

He turned it over slowly and he couldn't help how his jaw dropped. 

_Nowhere,_ the note read, _it’s in Clearfield, Utah._

The smile broke across his face without thought. A big, open smile. His bruised face hurt with the turn. 

He pressed his back up against the door, his body still rocking as he sank slowly to the floor. His knee was killing him and he may have twisted his ankle, or maybe his wrist when his father grabbed him. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. 

He clutched the note in his hand, tight in a fist, and covered his eyes with his other. Pressed the scraped palm into his face. His eyes were watering. 

Brendon wrote him. There was no one else it could have been. Although, to be sure, he pulled the smeared napkin open again. Sure enough, at the bottom in small block letters: _B.U._

Brendon Urie.

Brendon Urie wrote him, Ryan. Brendon wanted him to come. 

Ryan’s heart beat remarkably fast against the inside of his chest. 

Brendon actually wanted him to come. And why wouldn’t he go?

Ryan pressed his head back into the door and stared up at the starless ceiling. The adrenaline was beginning to bleed out of him through his palms and the cut on his forehead and the bruise on his left eye and the split over his cheek. He wiped at his wet eyes. They wouldn't stop leaking. Pesky things.

Brendon Urie might be the only one who could understand this war. A war away from war. A different sort of fight. Brendon might be the only one. 

Really, why _wouldn’t_ Ryan go?

Or perhaps a better question; why in the world would he stay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! These next few chapters I think are going to be my favorite to write. Let's hope that translates in the speed that I write and the quality!


	10. Just Tomorrow's Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of discussion in this chapter about a song called 'Paper Doll' by The Mills Brothers. 10/10 reccommend listening to it but you can't find a cover of Brendon singing it because he really doesn't sing very many (there's like two) songs from the 40s and before. So, sorry, but most of the songs I mention from here on out (unless they're Panic!) you won't be able to find covers of. Sorry!

Brendon was singing again. 

It was maybe the sixth night or so in a row, and frankly, the normalcy of it was astounding. He hadn’t thought he would be so quick to fall into the routine of it all. But it hadn’t taken long for him to perfect this new method of living. 

He’d even created himself a schedule of sorts in his brain. 

_Step one of Brendon Urie’s daily routine_ : Get out of bed at noon or half-past it; debate on whether or not he wanted to eat before finally deciding he didn’t and turn on the radio.

 _Step two_ : listen to bad (sometimes good) music and harmonize the best he could. Drink a cup of coffee to the beat. Almost spill it on his carpet but somehow manage not to. 

_Step three_ : take a walk around town because there wasn’t anything else to do. Look into shop windows and shift in his pockets for money. Decide he didn’t want to spend any. 

_Step four_ : go to Dallon’s, see if he was home. Sometimes he was, sometimes he wasn’t. If Dallon was home, play cards with Dallon or watch Looney Tunes and complain about it while laughing. Enjoy Dallon’s fleeting company. 

_Step five_ : eat dinner. Sometimes with Dallon, sometimes without. 

_Step six_ : walk to The Church, say hello to Butch, beat the door in that odd, full-handed way that Dallon did; greet Jon who continued to watch Brendon like he was worth watching. Then sing some songs. Listen to the crowd hum along. Listen to their shoes tap. Close his eyes and let the world slow. 

_Step seven_ : let Dallon give him a drink—maybe two—and Dallon would either walk Brendon home or stay back to help Jon with something. 

_Step eight_ : walk inside his house, look around to see if it had changed. Find that it hadn’t, and lay in bed. 

_Step nine_ : stare at the ceiling until it faded to black. 

_Step ten_ : rinse and repeat.

And on and on the cycle repeated until Brendon felt maybe he could live like that. Not that he didn’t like the consistency of it, even though he didn’t—not really—but it simply didn’t match what he was accustomed to. It was blatantly obvious to him that Dallon didn’t mind the repetition of it. He supposed that Dallon was the sort of man that needed it. Consistency. security. 

Not Brendon. What had safety ever gotten him? Three years of his life on the line; he wasn’t content to take it off so quickly. Not that he wanted to throw everything away. He didn’t. Just wanted to put it back on the tightrope. Just a bit of a waver in his step. He didn’t want to tumble. But he didn’t want to coast through life. 

Brendon wanted to fly with the threat of falling.

So as he sang again, maybe the sixth night in a row, he let that out. Not screaming into the microphone, but a rough shift in his voice. A growl when there didn’t exactly need to be one. 

He wasn’t trying to make a point. He wasn’t trying to prove anything. He was just singing how he wanted to sing. 

It didn’t seem to him, however, that everyone else was as pleased with his new rasp as he was. Dallon didn’t seem as though he disliked the sound, but his head was tilted and his brows were angled up in what looked alarmingly like sympathy. Even Jon Walker was watching Brendon with careful concern, his eyes narrowed. Concern? For Brendon? Couldn’t be. 

Besides, he wasn’t upset. It was just one of those days. 

He held out the last note on the song he was singing—what was it again? ‘Paper Doll,’ right? The Mills Brothers. Came out in ‘43 and when everyone was camping out near Normandy, one of the boys had picked it up on the radio. Everyone had gathered around to listen. 

Brendon remembered hearing that song for the first time in Normandy, tapping his foot, and appreciating the tune. 

“Hey,” Dan Pawlovich had said, nodding to himself. “That’s not half bad.”

Everyone murmured in agreement. Brendon had frowned, looking around at the group before voicing his thoughts aloud, “Not half bad? It’s beautiful.”

“I dunno about all that,” Dan replied, straightening up from the bent position he was in so he could stand, hands falling on his hips. He glared at Brendon and Brendon glowered back. “It’s alright.”

“Alright, he says,” Brendon mocked. “ _Alright_?”

“Alright,” Mike Naran, who was sitting across from the two of them, agreed. 

“I like it,” Ryan Ross had said absently. 

Brendon had turned to him then, taking notice of the other young man for seemingly the first time that night. Ryan was holding Mike Naran’s bible open in his lap and was thumbing through the pages lazily like it was something not worth reading. 

It was two months after Brendon had killed that man. He still didn’t regret it. 

But as he watched Ryan Ross leaf through a baby bible with melancholy eyes, he felt a sudden twist to his gut. Maybe he should. Was he a bad person if he didn’t? 

“Don’t like the lyrics so much though,” Dan went on and he yawned after he spoke, stretching his arms out. 

It was after supper and Mike was chewing on a leftover peach. Brendon had long since finished his rations but he couldn’t say he felt full in the slightest. He didn’t remember seeing Ryan eat but he must have. There wasn’t anything in sight. 

Mike looked over at Dan curiously. He asked, “How come?”

“Rather have me a paper doll than a real girl?” Dan rudely recited, even though those weren’t exactly the words, and made an odd face. “The hell can you do with a paper girl?”

“Not much,” Ryan called out from his place sitting on his poncho. The tent was close by but most of the men had gathered outside it to listen to the radio in the shade of the evening. Some tapped their feet along like Brendon and bobbed their head like Dan. 

“Can’t screw no paper girl,” some man that Brendon didn’t know the name of had said and all the men had laughed loudly. “Where’re you supposed to put your hands?”

The crowd of men erupted as the soldier mimed kissing a piece of paper. It was a letter from his mother, Brendon recalled. No one had mentioned that though. Oh, if only they knew. 

Brendon was quiet as men joked about sex with paper machete girls. Not that Brendon could add anything to the conversation. He didn’t know much about having sex with _real_ girls, so he couldn’t exactly share in on the hilarity of it all. 

Although, Ryan Ross wasn’t sharing anything either and Brendon peered across the group of people to see Ryan flipping through that bible. Ryan scanned over every other word and changed the page. It was obvious he wasn’t really reading it. 

Brendon tilted his head and slowly got up from his seat and crossed the distance between bumbling idiots joking about things he didn’t find funny, so he could stand beside Ryan. 

It took a moment for the other man to look up and, when he did, Brendon held his stare. 

Ryan had dark circles beneath his eyes, his cheeks were hollower than they had been, and dirt was streaked across his creamy skin. Brendon wondered if he had been sleeping right. Not that Ryan looked bad—he didn’t—he looked tired. 

Brendon didn’t ask if he could sit, instead going ahead and placing himself right alongside Ryan on the poncho. Ryan didn’t scoot over to make room so their shoulders touched. 

“You reading?” Brendon asked, watching the men laugh. 

“Mike’s,” Ryan answered, shutting the book without marking his page and showing it to Brendon. 

Brendon nodded in understanding. “I knew that. Why’re you reading it?”

Ryan patted the cover. “I’m not.”

Brendon quirked a brow. “You’re not?”

“Well, I’m trying.” Ryan chuckled gently and Brendon liked the sound of it. “But, I’ll be honest, it’s sort of a bad read.”

Brendon laughed aloud. “You should try the Book of Mormon.”

Ryan laughed in tandem and a few seconds passed between them before Ryan chose to say, “I just thought it’d be different, you know.”

“What?” Brendon let his laughter fizzle out. “The bible?”

“Yeah." Ryan bobbed his head, brow creased. "I thought it’d be pretty straight forward. Or it’d be about redemption or something, I don’t know. Now it’s just—Well, God sounds like a sort of a prick, honestly.”

Brendon snorted again but he could tell that Ryan was trying to have a serious conversation with him so he wiped at his nose with the back of his hand to cover his mouth and the laughter within. 

“I mean, what?" Ryan continued. "He expects us to do everything he says, right? But we’re people. And we’re flawed. And he made us that way, yeah? So shouldn’t he get that we’re not so keen to do what he says?”

Brendon opened his mouth and then paused, thinking.

“Why,” Ryan carried on without invitation, “Would he make us so… _stupid_ , I guess, if he was just going to tell us off for it. Seems to me like God wants to be mad.”

Brendon smiled at him. “Yeah. Yeah... I think so too.”

Ryan peaked over at Brendon and there was a set to his jaw and a sort of determination to his eyes, as though he was desperate to make his point, but he saw the way Brendon was looking at him—all soft smile and expectant eyes—and his face fell a bit. He laughed awkwardly, turning away, and wiped a hand across his face. 

“Maybe I’m overthinking this,” he said, scratching at his collar. 

“It’s made to be overthought,” Brendon returned and Ryan bobbed his shoulders in a laugh. 

“Yeah." There was a discomfort to his voice. "You’re probably right.”

“Not probably," Brendon replied. "I am.”

“Fellas.” There was a shadow hovering over them all of a sudden, and Ryan and Brendon both looked up to see who was interrupting their conversation about God. It was Dan Pawlovich, of course, a slurred smile from laughter painted on his face. 

“Hey Dan,” Brendon said in a monotone voice and Ryan, reading the bland expression, turned back to Dan without a greeting. 

“You don’t think it’s funny?” Dan asked. 

“Not my kinda humor,” Brendon explained blankly. 

Dan rolled his eyes and puffed out a breath. Muttered something that Brendon didn’t hear but he figured it had something to do with his increasing disinterest in female-based comedy. Dan was bound to catch on eventually. Most of the guys would. It was only a matter of time. Brendon needed to do better about keeping his cover. 

“What about you, Ross?” Dan asked. 

“What about me?” Ryan appeared confused. 

“Paper girls,” Dan said. 

Ryan blinked a couple times. 

“Sleepin’ with one,” Dan tried again. 

Ryan stared at him for a beat more. Brendon half expected him to just look back to the bible without another word, but Ryan opened his mouth to speak. Brendon listened intently, eager for what wisdom Ryan held. 

“I think I’d hate it,” Ryan said. There was a small curve to his lips that Brendon traced with his eyes. “Imagine the papercut.” 

Dan stood for but a minute before laughing heartily. 

“That’s good!” he said. “Yeah! Imagine it! Damn!”

He proceeded to turn away from the two of them and hurry back to the pack to relay the message. Ryan rolled his eyes so far back in his head Brendon thought they might get stuck there before he went back to the bible in his hands. He moved to put it in his pack. 

Not Mike’s. His own. 

_So, Ryan Ross is a thief._ Brendon cocked his head and watched Ryan steal the baby bible he didn’t even want to read because he thought God was a prick. _Imagine that._

“That was funny,” Brendon said, eyes trailing back to the other guys laughing. “The papercut joke.”

“Was it?” Ryan asked, preoccupied as he zipped his pack. “You didn’t laugh.”

“I don’t know, I just like the song a lot. It’s hard to make fun of it.” Ryan was staring at him as he talked and Brendon turned to face him. “I mean that’s not what the song’s about.”

“Did you write it?” Ryan asked him. 

“No, but—”

Ryan smiled. “Then how would you know? Maybe it’s just as shallow as those guys think it is. Sometimes words are just words, Bren.”

 _Bren._

“Yeah.” Brendon had nodded his head uneasily. “Sometimes.”

Brendon remembered that evening perfectly in his mind as he sang. Replayed it through his head like it was a picture show, fuzzy and flickering, but so close—tangible and real. Mike Naran eating his peach, unaware that his bible was gone. Dan making jokes about sleeping with paper dolls. Ryan Ross stealing a bible he didn’t even care to read. 

_Words are just words,_ he had said. 

Not to Brendon they weren’t. Not as he sang them. These words meant something. Paper dolls had writing all over them. Origami masterpieces with ink splotches all over like blood. That _meant_ something. 

“ _I'd rather have a paper doll to call my own / Than have a fickle-minded real live girl_ ,” Brendon sang into the microphone in The Church, one hand on the mic and the other placed on his chest. He held out the last note, long, and it came out too hard on the onset so his voice cracked at the end. 

He pulled back from the mic so it wouldn’t hear him let out a soft breath of irritation. 

_Damn,_ he thought, _that would have been a good run if I hadn’t fucked the end over._

But that wasn’t really true. The whole thing had been slightly off. He would have to sing that song again when he was in a better mood. When he could sing it in a better way. 

He swallowed gently as he listened to Eric finish out the song on the piano before he leaned into the microphone and said to the crowd, “It’s getting late now folks. That’s all from me tonight. Thank you all; I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He didn’t even check with Eric to see if he was alright to leave, only turned and ambled off stage. Eric didn’t protest though, thankfully, and instantly fell into an interlude piano ballad. 

How many different songs did that guy know? It was remarkable really; Brendon should tell him sometime how good he was. He wondered if Eric knew.

Dallon was waiting for him beside the stage, blue eyes calculating and darting all over Brendon’s face as if he were trying to get a read. Like Brendon was a bible in the war. Men were desperate for any sort of answer what-so-ever, forget the reasoning behind it. 

Dallon had a Rickey in his hand and Brendon didn’t wait for him to offer it—even though he knew he would—taking it from Dallon and inhaling a sharp swig. 

He blinked a couple of times to clear his head and frowned into the cup. “I like when there’s sugar.”

He handed the drink back to Dallon and the older man stared at him incredulously. He asked, “Really?"

"What?" Brendon wanted to know. 

Dallon narrowed his eyes. "You ended your set two songs early. Everything alright?”

Brendon flashed his eyes over Dallon's body. He scowled. “Did you hear that last note? Quit while you’re ahead, I say.”

“Was it bad?” Dallon asked. “I couldn’t tell.”

“I could,” Brendon said, folding his arms. 

He was no longer wearing Dallon’s clothes, thank God for that. When he first started singing for Jon officially (although be it for free), Jon had said he needed better fashion sense. Which was an insult to Brendon because Jon had meant it to be one and an insult to Dallon because they were his clothes. 

Needless to say, Brendon had gone shopping so that night he could have the luxury of standing before Dallon in his own wardrobe. A white button-down and a black vest over it. Nice clothes. Proper ones. Not a uniform.

Dallon didn’t let his eyes wander from Brendon’s face though and Brendon was nearly offended. 

_Look at me,_ he thought, _I look good. What're you doing? Look at me._

“So you’re done for the night then?” Dallon asked, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. “Won’t Jon be upset with you leaving early?”

“I didn’t say I was leaving,” Brendon amended. “Just that I’m done singing.”

Dallon shook his head and made an effort to laugh. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, but I’m doing two weeks for free. He can’t tug my ear about skipping out on a couple of songs.” Brendon walked past Dallon and towards the bar, which Dallon walked to as well, still looking mildly stressed about the entire situation. Brendon threw a hand up. “And I still don’t even know what for.”

“He told me it was a secret,” Dallon said as he placed his Rickey glass on the counter. “Something only the two of you are supposed to know.”

“Oh, thats bull.” Brendon patted his hand on the wood as he slid into the bar stool. “That’s only because he doesn’t remember what he did. Bet you money there wasn’t even a real deal; the man's trying to cheat me, I swear it.”

“Why don’t you do anything then?" Dallon wondered. He held his Rickey tightly in his fest. "Protest or-or something. If he didn’t actually do anything for you.”

“He says he did,” Brendon returned in a heavy sigh. He shrugged, scratching the bar top with a finger. “And besides, I _like_ singing.”

“You do it well too,” Dallon admitted and Brendon laughed. 

“Thank you,” he said. He straightened, clapping his hand against the wood. “And _Eric_!”

“Great, he really is,” Dallon agreed vigorously with his head. “He can play cello too.”

“God," Brendon hummed. "What a talent.”

The two laughed together. 

“But I feel bad about Nicole, y’know,” Brendon added. And that was the truth. He _did_ feel bad about demoting Nicole's status with his voice. She continued to sing at The Church, sure, but she was a shadow to Brendon’s far more brilliant light.

“I wouldn’t," Dallon assured. "I hear she’s getting married soon.”

“Married?” Brendon turned in surprise and Dallon nodded with the same amount of shock in his own eyes. Brendon said, “I thought she was queer.”

“I don’t know.” Dallon shrugged his shoulders as if he really didn't have the answers. That was odd. Dallon Weekes was a man suspected of wisdom. “She hangs around with girls but maybe it’s just for the thrill of it. Don’t get me wrong, I like her plenty. But I get confused easy with the young ones.”

“Young?” Brendon tilted his head.

Dallon hummed. “Nicole’s only nineteen or twenty.”

“Holy cow, I didn’t realize that.” Brendon whistled lowly and took in a breath. “Guess it’s a good age to get married though. Twenty or so.”

“And it’s smart too,” Dallon added in a far off voice, watching Eric play piano on the stage, beating away at the keys as though he had something to prove. “Smart to get married.”

“I don’t think so,” Brendon argued. “I never wanted to.”

Dallon laughed. “Not exactly like we have the option.”

“Yeah,” Brendon agreed and a frown was quick to draw itself along his face. “But some guys you know, they marry the girl anyway. Just ‘cause they feel like they’ve got to. And I never got that. Why would you lie?”

“Lie’s easier than the truth,” Dallon replied matter-of-factly. 

“I don’t want to." Brendon swallowed. "Lie, that is. I don't want to.”

Dallon grinned at him and reached out to give Brendon a gentle shove on the shoulder, enough to make him tilt to the side. “Good thing you don’t have to then.”

Brendon only nodded back sadly as he straightened. He didn’t mention to Dallon that they were currently lying, just as they sat and talked. Lying as they sat beneath a heterosexual bar in a gay club. And Brendon knew that if someone came downstairs they didn’t know, they would all pretend they weren’t faggots. 

It was in that moment, that Brendon wished desperately that either he was a dame, Dallon was a dame, or that the world was a whole lot different. 

“Hey. What gives?” Jon Walker had materialized behind Dallon and Brendon and they both swiveled on their chairs to see him. His dark eyes were focused on Brendon. He snapped, “There a reason you skipped out early?”

“He’s tired,” Dallon replied before Brendon could come up with a rude enough returning comment. “Long… morning. Didn’t sleep.”

“He said two weeks free.” Jon scowled, deep lines etching into his face and for a split second Brendon thought about punching him. Only a second. But what a beautiful second it was, imagining Jon Walker getting hit in the face with his own fist. A beautiful second and one almost too beautiful to pass up. But Brendon stayed seated despite beauty and wishes. 

“And he’s a man of his word,” Dallon continued on as if Brendon wasn’t sitting right between them. 

Brendon huffed and reached over to take Dallon’s Gin Rickey off the table and drink some. Did it need sugar? Yes. But was it bad? Not horrible. So, he was willing to drink it. 

“It’s two songs, Jon. He’ll be back tomorrow anyhow.” Dallon raised an eyebrow incredulously. “C’mon, pal.”

Jon opened his mouth to say something, anything in order to argue with Dallon but it proved too trying, and Jon shut it just as quickly. “Eh. I guess. I was thinking of closing early anyhow. Anniversary tomorrow.”

“You and Cassie?” Brendon asked, pretending he hadn’t heard any of the previous conversation. 

“No, me and Dally over here,” Jon mocked. “ _Yeah_ , me and Cassie.”

“How long is it now?” Dallon asked, trying to take the attention back off Brendon and onto himself. It worked like a charm as Jon centered his gaze back in on Dallon. 

He snorted. Raised his chin. Something of pride. “Going on six with the ol’ ball and chain.”

And see there was another reason that Brendon never wanted to get married. No one who was married actually seemed to like it. Maybe no one had found the right person. Married someone else’s soulmate. If you believed in that sort of thing. Brendon didn't. Not on a good day. 

“Damn,” Dallon appraised. “Long time.”

“Hell yeah it is. Feel like I’m dying a little more every day.” Jon laughed a pathetic laugh that Dallon half returned. Brendon stayed silent in his chair and watched Jon wave a hand. “No, no. I’m kidding. Love that filly.”

“I’m sure you do, Jon.” Dallon smiled. A different type of pride. “She’s a good one. Real doll.”

She really was. Brendon had only met Cassie Walker once or twice in the hallways of the church they all used to frequent but she had seemed nice then. She was pretty too. He wondered why she would pick someone like Jon. There was probably something he didn’t understand. Some other side to Jon Walker he didn’t get to see. Not that he wanted to see it. 

He didn’t exactly want to know the intricacies of Jon Walker like Jon wanted to know them about him. 

“I’ll start getting it cleared then—” Jon tried to say but Dallon was already pushing himself from his seat. 

“That’s alright Jon," he offered. "Go see your wife. I’ve got it.”

There Dallon went again, being valiant and what-not. Another thing Brendon didn’t understand. Dallon’s consistent kindness. It was almost concerning. How could a person be so nice? They couldn’t. What was Dallon Weekes compensating for? What was he planning? Brendon constantly wondered. 

Jon didn’t need to be told twice and he thanked Dallon with a dip of his head. He said nothing to Brendon before he sauntered away. 

“You can leave too, if you want,” Dallon offered, turning back to Brendon. 

Brendon stared at him. “I don’t want to.”

“Oh.” Dallon blinked carefully. “Okay.”

He didn’t say anything else before he turned to wander back toward the stage, waving his hand to catch Eric’s attention. The pianist glanced over, saw Dallon, and improvised a new ending to his song—Brendon only knew that because he had heard this one before—and stood up from the piano.

Brendon watched as the pianist sauntered to the side of the stage, fixed his bowtie, and leaned down to listen to what Dallon Weekes was trying to tell him. He watched them exchange back and forth briefly, Dallon again resorting to frantic circles of his hands in the air like it explained anything. 

Brendon continued to drink what was left of Dallon’s Gin Rickey. 

Soon, Eric gave a dip of his head and the universal sign for ‘okay’ with his hand before going back to the mic that Brendon had originally been singing into. 

“Hey there, folks,” Eric said and he grinned on stage as if he belonged there. With the way he played piano though, Brendon was sure that he did. “That’s us for the night. Feel free to grab a drink on your way out. Bossman has a little _thing_ to get to tonight. Married life and all that.”

The crowd cooed. 

“We’ll see you all tomorrow,” Eric said after a few seconds more of aimless babbling.

There weren’t too many complaints from the crowd. A groan or two of sadness that the night was coming to a close, but most people were content with taking the last sips from their drinks and making their way to the stairs. 

Brendon watched the crowd disperse slowly, Dallon going around and telling people what a good thing it was to see them again, hoping they enjoyed themselves. Bar owners didn’t need to do that, go around and greet people and say goodbye to people and remember them by name. But Brendon supposed that a gay ambassador did. 

Had to be careful who you let in here. One wrong person and everything Dallon and Jon worked for could all come crashing down, all attendants included. Dallon cared too much about this place to let it come to that. Brendon admired him for that, caring about something so deeply. He couldn’t think of anything he felt so passionate about. Singing, maybe, but singing was like breathing. 

He didn’t have to think so much about singing. 

“You quit early.” Brendon hadn’t even noticed Eric Ronick strolling over to sit beside him. He was in the barstool Dallon had previously occupied; Brendon didn’t mind the replacement. 

“Did I?” Brendon didn’t need people to keep reminding him. 

“Skipped the last two songs," Eric explained, getting comfortable as best he could and leaning back against the bar. "We were gonna do a reprise of String; you love that one.”

And yes, since he had sung it the first night, Brendon couldn’t seem to _stop_ singing ‘I’ve Got the World on a String’ but it wasn’t particularly tempting that night. 

He forced a small smile at Eric’s dark eyes. “Must’ve forgot.”

Eric tipped his head. “That’s a lie.”

“Yeah." Brendon smiled. "It is.”

“Why’d you stop?” Eric asked.

“Sang ‘Paper Doll’ last,” Brendon told him. 

“It’s a good song,” Eric replied.

“It is, isn’t it? But it’s—” Brendon let out a small sigh. “Memories, I guess. That's all. Memories.”

“Of your own paper doll?” Eric teased and Brendon laughed quietly. 

“No,” he answered. “Just that… The first time I heard it, I was in France.”

“When you were—” Eric’s face drowned out in realization. 

“Yeah. When I was _away_." 'Away' as if he had been on vacation. "And it sort of—Well, I hadn’t thought about it in a long time. Sort of jarring for it to hit me all of a sudden like that.” 

Brendon couldn’t think of a better way to explain it. He wasn’t crippled by the memory and, if he really needed to, he could get up there and finish his set. But he didn’t want to. He was far too tired to keep on singing tonight. 

Eric didn’t look like he minded. 

“No harm, no foul, though,” Eric supplied. “You sang great. I wouldn’t worry too much about ending early.”

“I’m not worrying,” Brendon said.

Eric didn't seem to be listening. He was staring across the bar floor and he said, to no one in particular, “But you did screw up a line.”

Brendon looked over at Eric, alarmed. “I did?”

“I don’t remember what song,” Eric replied, still not looking. “But yeah. Third or so verse, it says something about ‘you are my love’ and then you said, instead, ‘you remind me of a former love’ which first, isn’t right and second, doesn’t even have the same beat. Third, what sort of line is that? ‘Former love?’ Makes me wonder.”

“Didn’t realize I did that,” Brendon said and it was the truth. He hadn’t even noticed he had replaced a line in a song with one of his. He probably just messed up, it happens.

“It’s just curious s’all. Here you are replacing a song’s lyrics with one of your own—a weird-ass one too—and then you end early.” Eric’s eyes were flashing up and down, all over Brendon’s face, trying to find answers where he could. Brendon didn’t give anything away. Eric leaned back. “You’re a real mystery, Brendon Urie.” 

Brendon smirked at him. “I like the element of surprise.”

Eric appeared pleased. “You seem like the kind who would.”

Brendon snickered. 

“So a former love and a memory about paper dolls,” Eric said thoughtfully and he tapped at his chin. “I like this mystery.”

“I didn’t mean to say the line wrong,” Brendon attempted to explain.

“I think you did,” Eric said. “And it wasn’t a bad line. _You remind me of a former love._ That’s the start of a song if I ever heard one. Do you write?”

“No.” Brendon shook his head. “I try but—Never sounds right.”

“Well, ‘former love’ sounded right to me.” Eric was still looking pensive. “I think you should write that song. I could come up with some piano for you if you want.”

Brendon stared. Took a beat. “It’s not a piano song.”

That was enough to make Eric’s eyes glitter with fascination. “What sort of song is it?”

Brendon held his Gin Rickey. “Not piano.”

“What then?” Eric sounded desperate to know. 

Brendon cast a glance into the glass. “I was thinking guitar.”

“I could come up with some guitar,” Eric said eagerly. 

Brendon smiled and almost agreed before he paused, narrowing his eyes a sliver on the man beside him. “Wait. Why?”

“Why what?” Eric asked, innocent.

“Why would you want to write a song with me?” Brendon asked skeptically. 

“Because I’m interested,” Eric answered without missing a beat. “About this former love of yours.”

“There is no former love." Brendon swirled around his Gin Rickey. "I just messed up a line.”

“Doesn’t matter." Eric drummed fingertips on the bar. "I wanna hear the rest of it.”

Brendon shook his head in mild disbelief. “Okay… okay. It won’t be good though.”

“It doesn’t have to be good.” Eric grinned at him. “Just has to be true.”

Thank God for that. That was all Brendon really wanted. Just the truth.

He didn’t say anything back to Eric, merely smiled to himself happily before turning and looking over at Dallon who had successfully cleared The Church of all other people. The musicians were packing up their instruments into cases and bidding their farewells to Dallon. He called them each by name. 

“Brendon.” He heard Dallon calling his name and giving a small wave of his hand to catch his attention. “You walking home with me?”

“Yeah.” Brendon jumped from his seat onto the ground. “Sure I will, Dal.”

He glanced back at Eric who was staring at Dallon across the room. Like he was trying to figure something out. 

“I’m off, Eric,” Brendon said and the other man peered to him. “I’ll work on some lyrics.”

Eric smiled that ever-sharp grin of his. “And I’ll work on some chords.”

They didn’t say goodbye so explicitly. Simply bobbed their heads and formed half-salutes with their fingers. That was farewell enough among fags. 

Brendon jogged over to where Dallon was waiting for him beside the steps. They didn’t say a word as they started to walk together. Back into routine. 

“What’d Eric have to say?” Dallon asked as they strolled along in the darkness of the night. Street lamps stood tall above them and cast yellow beams down on the pair. 

“I messed up some lyrics,” Brendon relayed t him. “Eric thought they were good, the lyrics I sang instead.”

Dallon had his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders up. It wasn’t particularly cold but there was a cool breeze that shifted Brendon and Dallon’s hair forward and over their eyes. Dallon appeared displeased with the way the wind moved his hair and he used one hand to try and lay it flat. Brendon felt like laughing at him but did his best not to. 

“What’d you say instead?” Dallon asked, fidgeting with his hair. 

“‘You remind me of a former love,’” Brendon recited dramatically. 

Dallon frowned. “And he liked that?”

Brendon cocked his head. “You don’t?”

“Sounds sort of sad to me,” Dallon murmured. “It’s good and all, but—‘You remind me of a former love.’ So you loved this person but you don’t see them anymore. And you only love this new person because they remind you of someone you used to know. Pretty sad.”

“Wow,” Brendon said, stunned partially. “Didn’t expect you to read so much into it.”

Dallon scratched at his hair nervously. “Sorry. Overthinking it.”

Brendon paused on the street and thank God they were in front of Dallon’s house now. _Overthink it._ Dallon about Brendon’s lyrics and Ryan Ross about the bible in war. _You remind me of a former love._ Why did he sing that? He hadn’t meant to. That was just what came out. What happened to breach the air. Still, though, he stared forward at Dallon in surprise. 

Dallon, obviously not realizing Brendon’s sudden stop, came to a slow halt as well at the end of his path and kept talking. “I think you should love someone because of who they are, not because of who you want them to be, or who you used to love. You know? I am an English teacher though, so maybe I’m _made_ to overthink these types of things. What did you mean by it? ”

Brendon shook his head slowly, disbelieving. “I don’t know. I really don’t even remember singing it.”

“Oh.” Dallon puckered his lips before he shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it then. I’ll see you tomorrow, Brendon. Night now.”

“Yeah,” Brendon mumbled, watching Dallon turn away. He shook his head and then, with more conviction, said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dallon.”

And he walked the rest of the way home alone, overthinking everything he possibly could. Former love. Former love. Who was that? 

It wasn’t Ryan Ross. It couldn’t be. And Dallon wasn’t his current love. So that didn’t equate. None of it made any sense to him. But he had to remind himself, it wasn’t supposed to. All he did was sing some wrong words. That was all. He only sang some wrong words. 

He was still fretting about it when he made it up the stairs in his apartment building, pulling his keys from his pockets, going through every person he had ever known. Every person he had ever loved—which was a rather non-existent list—and why he would sing about them. 

No one came to mind. 

“Former love,” he repeated to himself as he reached the top of the stairs to his floor. “Former love.”

It was then, as he finally made it up to his door, that he realized he wasn’t alone in the hallway. There, sitting against the wall beside his door was a man. Brendon couldn’t make out his face, on account that the man had it pressed up against the wall, brown curls covering his eyes as he breathed slowly.

Brendon furrowed his brow, utterly confused. _What the hell?_ he thought.

“Hey,” he called out gently as he started walking towards his door. Maybe the man got locked out of his own apartment, but Brendon hadn’t seen him before. Or he was fairly certain he hadn’t. It had been three years though. Things were bound to change. “Hey, are you alright?”

The man leaned off the wall then, blinked hair from his whiskey-colored eyes—one of which was surrounded by a purple shade of ugly bruising—and fixed Brendon with a half-crooked smile. 

“Hey, yeah, I’m alright.” He started to stand, not very smoothly, and used one hand as support on the wall, holding the other to his stomach. He must have been sitting for a long time. Seemed brittle.

Brendon stared, trying to think why that voice sounded familiar when it hit him far too hard. His jaw fell open. 

“Ryan?” he asked in alarm. 

“Yeah,” the bruised man that sounded far too much like Ryan Ross said back and he was smiling stupidly. “Hey, Bren.”

Brendon stared. It was Ryan Ross. Really, honestly, it was Ryan Ross. Ryan _fucking_ Ross from France.

This whole ‘former love’ thing just got significantly more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the longest chapter yet. Also, this is officially 50,000 words which meant that I just did the entirety of NaNoWriMo in half a month. Pat on the back for me. Thanks for reading!


	11. Wrong Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there is absolutely NO confusion: this takes place before the previous chapter. Also, 12 is gonna be my favorite to write. I can tell.

“You’re going where?” Spencer asked him, confusion blatant through the haze of the phone receiver. 

Ryan was holding Brendon’s note in both hands on account that he hadn’t been able to put it down since he picked it up. Granted, he had taken a momentary lapse to go wash his hands and wrap them in crude bandages; he couldn’t risk dirtying Brendon’s note with blood. 

“Utah,” Ryan confirmed, balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear. 

He was holding Brendon’s note in both hands, peering down at it, rubbing the edges between his fingers like he was worried it might vanish if he set it down for too long. He had taken both the note and the phone and was sitting beneath his window on the floor, his neck pressed back into the windowsill. The white wood of it cut into his flesh but he didn’t mind so much. 

Brendon's note was a good distracted. 

“Clearfield,” he added for specificity.

“Clearfield… _Utah_?” Spencer repeated, sounding like he thought Ryan stupid for saying it and himself for repeating it. “Why the hell would you go to Clearfield, Utah?”

“A friend wrote me,” Ryan said back gently and turned the note over in his hands. 

Brendon had nice handwriting. It wasn’t anything like Ryan's own chicken scratch. Although, there was a tilt to it, a bit of a slur, and certain parts were smudged. Perhaps Brendon had written it at an angle or… Was he shaking? Why would he be shaking? Possibilities, possibilities. Brendon was worried, hesitant when he wrote it. Or maybe he was rushing because he needed to finish it as soon as possible. Get the letter to Ryan as quick as he could. Maybe he was desperate.

Ryan turned it about in his hands, searching for answers in the font.

 _Why on a napkin?_ he wondered. Surely Brendon had paper somewhere. So he was in a restaurant when he wrote this note. Maybe a bar. Where else had napkins? He wouldn’t have this kind at home. This wasn't a domestic napkin.

 _Home_. 

Did Brendon have a home? Why Utah? Did he live in Utah? For the life of him, Ryan couldn’t seem to remember. Hadn’t Brendon mentioned Clearfield to him once? How could that be ‘Nowhere’ if he had? Had Brendon really gone straight home? No. Couldn’t be. Brendon had the whole world to go to. Why would he go home? 

When had Brendon mentioned Utah? He had once, hadn’t he? Yes! He had! One of those days down by the creek when they were in Metz, a year and a half into their stay from America 

Ryan remembered it and he focused in on the memory as Spencer prattled on about Utah in his ear. What had Brendon told him about Utah? What had he said?

Brendon had been using his pocket knife to cut a dead man’s boots into sandals, Ryan remembered, and he had watched as Brendon did so. Ryan had learned in the past year and a half not to question the odd things that Brendon Urie did at war.

And there were plenty of weird things. 

He was a collector, Brendon. Ryan collected his fair share too. A lot of guys took gold teeth from dead men, which Ryan would never understand. That was disgusting, taking teeth. He and Brendon didn’t do that. They weren't sick. 

People like Dan Pawlovich did that. People like Mike Naran—people who wanted recognition—did that too. Ryan and Brendon collected _important_ things. Meaninful things. Things other than golden teeth. 

Brendon liked to find pages taken from journals. Or pictures left in dead men’s jacket pockets. Jewelry he found on a corpses’ necks or hands. Brendon had four rings on that day. Four different wedding rings. 

His reasoning behind the thievery? Someone bought those rings as a memory, a promise. You couldn't let a promise go to waste. 

Ryan didn’t know if he agreed necessarily with that ideology. But he supposed it didn’t matter; Brendon wasn’t taking from live people. He was taking from corpses. It technically wasn’t even stealing since no one owned them anymore. 

Ryan traced his eyes over Brendon’s fingers, adorned with different family heirlooms. Wedding rings from weddings he had never attended. 

They looked good on him though, the rings. They really did. 

You weren’t technically allowed to wear so many—only two of your own and here was Brendon with four, each from different men—but no one ever got onto Brendon for such things. He looked too good in rings for people to be upset with him. Pretty people didn’t get in trouble. 

Maybe that was why Ryan was always having such a hard time. He needed to be prettier. 

“You don’t need sandals,” Ryan had said to Brendon. 

They could make out the large set up of tents about half a mile in the distance. There was a creek that ran through a gathering of rocks and Brendon and Ryan had gone down to it to take a quick wash. Not full bodies. Ryan simply felt like washing his face and hands would be beneficial; something to get all that dirt from beneath his skin.

Brendon had his shirt and jacket tugged off and draped them over a rock nearby. They sagged across the jagged texture in a limp heap. His dog tag hung off his neck and draped against the planes of his flat stomach. Brendon had started to gain a golden tan from the sun. Shinier than any stolen tooth.

Ryan wondered why he still looked so pale. 

There was another group of men further down the river—the deeper parts—and Ryan and Brendon could hear their hoots and hollers from where they were relaxing. 

Ryan had taken his own shirt off as well and washed his face twice already in the cool water. Currently, he sat on a rock that was half-submerged so that he could rest his bare feet in the clear liquid and flex his toes in the sand at the bottom. 

Silky looking fish swam past his ankles and he watched them. 

This was a beautiful place. Really, it was. He could write a poem to this creek. 

A proper daydream. 

Brendon had grunted as he stabbed his pocket knife into the shoe he was mutilating, saying through the struggle, “Sure I need sandals.”

“Why, pray tell, do you need sandals?” Ryan had asked him, his own stomach vaguely rumbling. He needed something to eat and watching the fish swim by, completely unaware of the predator above them, wasn’t helping. 

“Just do,” Brendon had said back curtly and he used his fingers to tug off a part of the shoe he had so eloquently sliced. The cuts were uneven and Ryan doubted those ‘sandals’ would be very comfortable to walk in. 

He snorted out a laugh though in response and looked down at his reflection in the water. He didn’t look nearly as good as Brendon did, all tanned skin with rings on and his necklace hanging down his toned stomach. 

Ryan paused for a moment, letting his eyes wander over Brendon, memorizing every feature. Every dip or curve in his flesh, every freckle neatly dotting his skin. The sun brought them out and Ryan could make out the splatter of them against Brendon’s flushed cheeks. 

He was a specimen, Brendon Urie. 

Prettier than any dame Ryan had ever known. Even Z could hardly hold a candle to how pretty Brendon was by the creek edge, black hair tucked back with a wet hand so the strands were clumped and a few stragglers went over his focused black eyes. The sun caught them in such a way that Ryan could make out the warm amber color to them beneath the evil. 

_Wow_. 

If Ryan liked boys. 

Brendon glanced up suddenly and Ryan had averted his eyes as quickly as possible so Brendon wouldn’t know he had been staring. It didn’t work though, Brendon squinting at him curiously. He could probably sense Ryan’s nervousness. 

“What?” he had asked. 

“Nothing,” Ryan said back, trying to think of something to confirm that. “It’s beautiful out here s'all. I mean, this is the sorta place you read about in books.”

Brendon took that into consideration, scrunching his nose in thought and looking around the rocky creek. As if for something he hadn't yet seen. 

“I guess,” he had said back, still searching.

Ryan looked over at him again. “You don’t think so?”

Brendon shrugged. “I’ve been to prettier places than this.”

“Like where?” Ryan actually wanted to know. 

Brendon’s full lips turned up at the corners in a barely hideable smile and _wow_ , those lips. If Ryan liked boys. 

“Okay,” Brendon said and shifted like he was going to tell Ryan a story, raising his hands and abandoning his work on the sandals he was carving. “I lived in Utah, right? Before. And there was this creek that I’d go down to in Layton, just behind the college campus—”

Ryan’s ears perked. “You went to college?”

Brendon immediately appeared puzzled, moving his head back in surprise. “What? No. No, I didn't go to college. Look at me.”

“Then why were you at a college campus?” Ryan had asked. 

“Oh." Brendon bobbed his head. "Friend of mine worked there and—”

“What friend?” Ryan asked.

Brendon pouted and it was clear that he didn’t want to keep being interrupted. “Dallon Weekes. Buddy of mine. Worked there.”

“A teacher friend?” Ryan continued. 

Brendon hunched his shoulders. “Yeah.” 

“So," Ryan asked, "Where is he?”

“Who?" Brendon had asked, perplexed. "Dal?”

“Yeah, your teacher friend. Where is he now?”

“The university,” Brendon replied. “Teaching still.”

“He didn’t go?” Ryan had asked and he didn’t have to say the word ‘war’ for Brendon to know what he was talking about. 

“No,” Brendon said, staring at Ryan as if he was stupid. “He’s a teacher.”

“Oh right, I’m sorry,” Ryan said in exasperation and rolled his eyes, but smiled nonetheless. “Must be smarter than the whole lot of us. Such a smart guy he didn’t even go to war, huh? Can’t waste genius on the war.”

Brendon sent him a pointed look before those lips turned into a grin again. A cheeky smirk. “Exactly. That’s why you're over here. You’re easy to waste.”

Ryan opened his mouth in mock offense and Brendon laughed. 

“But anyway—Dal and I—" Brendon carried on and Ryan listened. "We would go down to this creek during his lunch breaks and we’d just sit together and talk and talk forever.”

Ryan felt his heart move in his chest. He joked, “Romantic.”

Brendon splashed water at him and Ryan raised his hands in a laugh to shield himself. 

“I’m not a homo,” Brendon had said, his frown deep.

“I know you’re not,” Ryan had confirmed. _But God if you were. If I was._

“But it was just great. All those times we talked,” Brendon went on. “That creek was a million times prettier than this one.”

Ryan was suddenly envious he had never seen this creek before. And he was angry that Brendon preferred Dallon's creek to his. “I bet it was, Bren.” 

“And we’d do all these stupid little jokes and games too—” Brendon said like he really remembered. 

“Like what?” Ryan had asked and he wished he had memories like Brendon did. 

“Oh, well, uh—” Brendon thought for a moment. “We’d take something around us, and we’d uh... We’d make a wish and put it in the creek and when it floated down the stream—when you couldn’t see it anymore—that meant your wish came true.”

“Sounds like kid stuff." Ryan chuckled. "Thought you said he was a teacher." 

“We’re all young at heart, Ryan Ross,” Brendon teased, patting his bare chest where his heart hid, and Ryan shook his head.

“Right, right. I forget.” 

Brendon waited a moment, staring at Ryan with those big, evil eyes that caught the light just so, before he asked, “D'you wanna do it?”

“Do what?” Ryan had asked. Thought about everything he wanted to do.

Brendon asked, too eager for a man, “Make a wish?”

Ryan let out a surprised laugh. “God, you’re a kid.”

“No, c’mon!” Brendon laughed too, swaying back. “You’ll like it, you will, I swear you will!”

“Okay, alright,” Ryan gave in all too easily. “What do I do?”

Brendon was beyond pleased, grinning, and frankly—if it kept him smiling like that—Ryan was willing to play any game Brendon wanted him to. 

“You make a wish and I’m gonna drop something in the creek and when you don’t see it anymore, your wish comes true." Brendon whistled. "Beautifully poetic, isn’t it?”

Ryan sighed dramatically. “Seems so.”

“Alright—” Brendon slipped one of the dead man rings off his fingers. 

It was the only thing they could stand to lose. You needed everything in this place. Anything you could find. But a dead man’s ring? You could stand to lose one of those. 

Brendon held it up to his eye, examined it with utmost precision, and proceeded to hover it above the water. It was the thinnest ring he had. Like it should go on a girl’s finger and not a man's. If a ring was going to float, it would be that one. 

“Make a wish,” Brendon had said quietly. As if it mattered.

Ryan shook his head but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. He took in a small breath. Glanced up and Brendon Urie was sitting there on the creek edge, shirtless with a tanned chest and stomach that his dog tag hung off of, wet hair slicked back on his head with loose strands over those amber eyes that the sun hit just right, and his full lips were in a wide smile. 

Ryan swallowed. 

“I’ve got my wish,” Ryan said. And he did. 

He wished Brendon Urie wasn’t so goddamn pretty. 

Brendon dropped the dead man’s ring into the creek and Ryan and he both leaned forward to watch it. 

The ring hovered for a moment on the surface of the water and Ryan thought for sure it was going to go downstream but then it shifted, a silky fish swam by Ryan’s bare feet, and a bubble came up to the surface. 

The ring promptly sunk and settled into the dirt at the bottom of the creek bed. It didn’t move again. It was content where it was. 

Unlike Ryan in Las Vegas. 

“A friend lives in Utah?” Spencer asked loudly, and Ryan blinked a couple of times. He hadn’t been listening; he had been remembering things he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Sorry?” he asked. 

“A friend invited you to Utah?” Spencer repeated aggressively, almost as though he was mad and Ryan shook his head. 

Why was Spencer so confused by this whole concept? It wasn’t so hard to understand, was it? 

Ryan had said it himself, he was going on a trip to Clearfield and he would be back. Eventually, he would be back. In the meantime, he wanted Spencer to make sure no one broke into his house, make sure it didn’t fall apart. Though he supposed it didn’t really matter. And Spencer wouldn’t come to his house. He knew that deep down. Maybe he was just calling to tell Spencer goodbye.

It shouldn’t be so hard to comprehend. Perhaps Spencer was stupider than Ryan had previously thought. 

“Yes,” Ryan answered slowly. “A friend.”

“What friend?” Spencer asked.

Ryan swallowed. “Brendon.”

“Brendon?” Spencer repeated and Ryan didn’t like how the name came out of Spencer’s mouth. It sounded sour when Spencer said it. 

“Urie. Brendon Urie,” Ryan said, trying to give the name back that sweet tinge it originally had. 

“Who the hell is Brendon Urie?” There he went again, ruining a good name. 

“A friend,” Ryan bit back. 

“Yeah, you said!” Spencer sounded madder and Ryan wondered why. 

Why did he have the right to be mad? Ryan was the one having to repeat himself. Z and Spencer, both of them, getting upset with him when he was the one who had the right to be hurting. What did Spencer, Z, and George Ross know about being hurt? What did they know? 

“What friend?” Spencer interrogated.

“From France,” Ryan supplied. 

There was a pause. A hard pause and one that made Ryan tense. Spencer's voice was low as he asked, “You talk to your war buddies?”

Ryan blinked. Tried his best to soften the blow. “Not so often. He just sent me a letter s’all. Gave me an address, an invitation. I figured I should go and see him. The right thing to do, isn't it?” 

No answer. 

“What," he asked, "you don’t talk to your war buddies?”

There was silence on the other end and Ryan thought that maybe he had said the wrong thing. The silence carried on. Yeah, he had definitely said the wrong thing. 

“It’s only Brendon that I talk to, and it’s not like we’ve talked before,” Ryan tried his best to explain. “This is the first time he wrote to me. He said he would. When he reached Nowhere, he said that he—”

“Nowhere?” Spencer soured that word too.

“Yeah.” Ryan traced the word on the note with his finger. “Nowhere.”

“I thought you said you were going to Utah,” Spencer said and Ryan groaned, turning the phone away from his mouth so he could bask in the irritation of it all. 

“Yeah, Clearfield.”

“So what does ‘Nowhere’ have to do with Utah? Last time I checked, Clearfield, Utah _was_ somewhere.” 

“No, it’s—” How did Ryan explain something like that? Explain the idea of Nowhere to someone like Spencer Smith? He couldn’t understand. Of course, he couldn’t. No one but Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross understood Nowhere. “It’s nothing, Spencer. Yeah, you’re right. Clearfield is somewhere.”

“So..." Spencer wanted to know. "What’s Nowhere?”

Ryan shook his head. Folded the napkin up neatly and—with caution—put it into his breast pocket. “It’s nothing, Spencer, forget about it.”

It was clear that Spencer didn’t want to forget about it through the angry huff he let out into the receiver and that went shrill into Ryan’s ear, but he went on with his new line of questioning anyway, “How long are you gone for?”

“A week.” Probably more than that. Ryan didn’t exactly have any set plans for staying with Brendon Urie. Would he be staying with Brendon? He hadn’t given it much thought. He might need to book a hotel room. Oh well, cross one bridge at a time and all that.

“Where’re you staying?” Spencer asked. 

Ryan laughed. Read his mind. “Haven’t thought that far.”

“So what then?” Spencer sounded skeptical. “You’re gonna pack your bags, right? And you’re gonna get a train ticket to Clearfield, Utah to see this old war buddy and, what? What’re you two gonna do?”

Ryan hadn’t really thought that through either. What _was_ he going to do with Brendon? Yeah sure, they’d probably talk about life, where it took them. What they’d been doing for the last week. Ryan’s answer to that would be pathetic, wouldn’t it? 

What did you do Ryan Ross when you came back from war?

 _Oh yeah, Brendon thanks for asking. What have I been up to since I came back? Well uh, I went home and found out that my girlfriend—the one who never wrote me and that I tried to write but you said was shit, you remember—has been cheating on me with my best friend—who funny enough, was also in war and now he’s not half the person I thought he was. Whoever that guy is, he’s a shell._

_And then that friend tried to guilt me into seeing my dad, who guess what? Has cancer! That bastard’s dying! And then we argued, I don’t know, and he said some things I didn’t like and I tried to punch him but woah, he hit me instead. Fell down the goddamn stairs trying to get away, I’m such a goddamn coward._

_I’m just as weak as I’ve always been and my dad fucked me up because of it. So now what? Now I’m running off to Nowhere because I’m scared to stay anywhere else. Because I’m out of options Brendon, that’s why I’m here._

_So basically I’m pathetic, Brendon Urie. That’s what I’m saying. I’m pathetic and you’re the only thing that makes any sense right now. So here I am! Look at me, Brendon Urie, I’m Nowhere!_

Jesus, Ryan needed to think of a better life story to tell. Make something up. Less tragic. 

Something along the lines of; _oh yeah, I broke up with my girlfriend. Things weren’t working out with her, you know? And my buddy Spencer? Yeah, we get along just fine. He’s a war hero. Got shot and everything! And he has a job; he’s making a living. And he and Z are actually gonna make things work together. Cute couple. And my old man? Yeah, he’s dying, but I’m really gonna miss that man. Yeah, my father. I’m gonna miss him so much when he’s gone._

_Oh, these bruises you ask? Oh yeah, those. See, I uh—Well, the thing is—_

_I fell._

_Yeah, that’s it._

_I fell._

Ryan couldn’t lie for shit. And with as many bruises as there were on him, he certainly couldn’t say he fell. Unless he fell down the biggest hill in Vegas onto a pit of barbed wire or something. Brendon would think he was pathetic. There was no doubt about that. 

Cross that bridge when he got to it. 

“Get a drink,” Ryan told Spencer. 

“A drink,” Spencer repeated. “You’re going to Utah—which is one hell of an expensive train ticket, Ryan—”

“It’s not that bad, I have money.” But it was that bad and no, Ryan did not have the money. It was worth it though. For sure it was. Brendon Urie was worth it. 

“Why do you need to go to Utah for a week if you’re just going to get a drink?” Spencer prodded.

Ryan shifted. “We might get... several... drinks.”

Spencer snorted. Shit liar. “How important is this guy?”

“Brendon?” Ryan asked. 

“Yeah,” Spencer said and he sounded at a loss for reasoning. “I don’t talk to any of my buddies. How important is this guy to you?”

“You weren’t with yours for three years straight,” Ryan reminded, trying his best to avoid the other question.

There was a pause. 

Ryan shook his head and sighed. He adjusted the phone so he was holding it with one hand instead of balancing it in the crook of his neck. “Listen, I knew Brendon for three years. Every day with that kid. You know what it’s like Spence, you get close.”

It sounded like Spencer was shaking his head. “Utah’s far, Ryan.”

“He asked me to come.”

“Yeah." Spencer was mad. "Why?”

Now that, Ryan didn’t know. The more he talked to Spencer, the less he felt like he knew about Brendon Urie. Why _did_ Brendon decide to write him? Perhaps it wasn’t an invitation. Perhaps Brendon was just telling him. Letting him know where it was. But if that was the case, why did he write his own address as well as Ryan’s? No, it was an invitation. Definitely. 

_Nowhere. It’s in Clearfield, Utah._

That had to be an invitation.

“He said he would,” Ryan told Spencer. And Brendon _had_ said he would write Ryan when he got to Nowhere. He thought about Brendon Urie on the train a week prior, his smile faded and his eyes glazed over. 

“Yeah,” Brendon had said. “I’ll write you a letter when I find Nowhere. ‘Here I am,’ it’ll say. ‘Look at me, Ryan Ross, I’m Nowhere’ and that’ll be the end. Sign it with a heart.”

And—although there was no heart on the napkin—it was certainly the same premise. And Brendon had said so on the train. He had offered Ryan to come. And Ryan had turned it down. Stupidly, he had turned it down. This was the opportunity. This was his chance to got to Nowhere; he wasn’t about to pass it up. 

“So, what?” Spencer’s voice came back into Ryan’s ear. “You’re gonna go to Utah for a week, you’re gonna have a drink or two—or as many as you can in a week—and then what?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” Ryan said aloud. Good plan. 

“You haven’t thought this through at all, Ryan," Spencer scolded. "That’s a fifteen dollar ticket. You’re an army man, you don’t have that kind of cash to flush away.”

“Sure I do,” Ryan argued. “I can flush away as much cash as I please.”

Spencer let out a heavy exhale. Sounded tired when he spoke, the phone rustling as though he was shaking his head. “You’re a stupid, _stupid_ man, Ryan Ross, you know that?”

 _Wrong again, Spencer Smith, I’m not a man at all. But a stupid, stupid_ boy _? Without a doubt._

“Yes.” Ryan tried his best to laugh but it sounded wrong. “Yeah, I am. I know it.”

“Guy must mean a lot to you,” Spencer said after a beat or two. As though he wanted to continue having a conversation with Ryan. That was new. “If you’re willing to spend fifteen dollars on a train ticket for him.”

“And I’ve gotta pay the taxi driver too,” Ryan reminded. 

“Taxi driver?”

“Oh yeah." Ryan nodded though Spencer couldn't see him. "Train only gets me to Provo. Gotta take a taxi to Clearfield. No train stations in Clearfield.”

“Holy cow, Ryan.” Spencer sounded as though he was laughing in disbelief. Disbelieving of how stupid Ryan Ross truly was. How desperate. “This guy really does mean a lot.”

Ryan's throat was sore. “My best friend.”

Spencer didn’t say anything back to that. Didn’t correct Ryan to say that, ‘no, I’m your best friend’ because they both knew he wasn’t anymore. Three years had put quite the rift in their friendship. If that was even what it was now. A friendship. Not anymore, not really. It wasn’t any sort of relationship at all. Spencer Smith? Who was he? Ryan wasn’t sure he knew. 

“You told Z yet?” Spencer asked, trying to change the subject. 

Ryan paused. He hadn’t been planning to tell her at all. He really hadn’t ever planned to talk to her again. It had been so painful the first time, he couldn’t fathom trying to hold up a casual conversation with her. He really loved her. He did. No matter how he felt about Brendon—which was platonic, actually, he didn’t know why he would think that. Brendon and he? That was just a what if. That was just an _if_ Ryan liked boys, then he would like Brendon. But obviously, he didn’t like boys. So he didn’t like Brendon—he loved Z. 

He had a headache. 

“No…” Ryan answered reluctantly. 

“Oh.” Spencer sounded like he judged Ryan. “Are you going to?”

That man really could read Ryan’s thoughts, couldn’t he? It had always been a talent. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Ryan had just always been a shit liar. 

“No…” Ryan pulled his neck off the windowsill—there was a clear indentation in his skin that it had made—and focused his eyes on the floor. He scratched his nail across the wood. Why did he feel guilty all of a sudden? 

“Ryan,” Spencer said like he was Ryan’s mother. But Ryan supposed he really didn’t know what that would sound like. He wondered then, rather unexpectedly, what his mother would think of him now. Lusting after some boy he met in France. If she would think him a romantic. Probably disgusting. 

Nothing romantic about a faggot.

What was she doing again? Was she dead? Why was he having trouble remembering? 

No, she had just left is all. Left and started a new family. A _better_ family. He didn’t blame her really. His father and he were both pretty shit. He could never blame her for it. 

“Oh, come off it,” Ryan snapped because he wasn’t in the mood to be parented and the thought of his mother had ruined his mood. “I don’t need to see anyone else.”

“You’ve only seen Z and me!” Spencer protested. 

_Wrong again, Spencer Smith._ “I saw my dad too.”

“Your dad?” Spencer asked, coming to an immediate stop, almost impressed. “You saw him?”

“Yeah. Cause you gave me such grief about it.” Ryan grimaced deeply. “Yeah, I saw him.” 

“And?” Spencer prompted.

“And it went shit." Ryan leaned his head back against the wall. "How we both knew it would go.”

Spencer made a small sound like a whine. “How shit?”

“Well, so you know—” Ryan started and he couldn't stop the snarl from erupting from his voice. He wanted to scream, holler out, or break something. But he didn’t. He only lowered his voice to a venomous hiss. About as angry as Ryan Ross could ever be. 

How shit did it go? About as shit as it could. The only way it could have been worse was if his dad went ahead and killed him. Actually, no. That would have been better. Ryan wouldn’t feel like so much of a coward if his father had just gone ahead and killed him already. Come back from France only to get killed in his own home by his dying father. Poetic. 

No. No, Ryan didn’t want that. Ryan didn’t want to die. He wanted to have never existed at all. 

“I cracked my melon on the fucking floor,” he spat. “I tore my hands up something awful. And my eye? Purple as a goddamn eggplant. I look more like a vegetable than my dad, and he’s the one with fucking cancer. He’s the fucking dying one. So you happy, Spencer? I did like you asked. I saw my dad and I broke my face. Are you fucking happy?”

There was a silence. A long, painful silence. 

Ryan shouldn’t have been mad. Spencer had only wanted to ask a simple question. Spencer wanted to be his friend. Ryan shouldn’t have been mad. 

“He beat your ass?” Spencer asked and why didn’t he sound more surprised? He didn’t know that Ryan’s dad beat him. He didn’t know that was how Ryan broke his leg. Spencer didn’t know jack-shit. Why was he pretending that he did?

Ryan opened his mouth and floundered for words. “He—I mean I—”

“So he did,” Spencer repeated and it was final. That was the truth. 

“Yeah…” Ryan sat there, dumbfounded. 

“Like senior year.”

Ryan froze. He asked it in a whisper. “What?” 

“With your leg,” Spencer said matter-of-factly. 

There was a pause on Ryan’s part this time because _no_. There was _no_ way Spencer Smith knew that. _No one_ knew that. 

Ryan swallowed, shaking his head. “H-how do you—?”

“C’mon, Ry. Everyone knew,” Spencer said and it was far too conversational, far too casual and Ryan’s heart was pounding out of his chest. “You and your dad are shit liars.”

Ryan hung up the phone instantly. 

He blinked. He breathed. And he felt like he was going to throw up. 

He told himself that if Spencer called again, he wouldn’t pick up. That was how mad he was at Spencer. He would leave without even saying a proper goodbye. He would. But it didn’t matter really; Spencer didn’t call again. 

His heart was hammering against his chest and he couldn’t seem to get it to stop. He held his hand over his heart, his breast pocket where Brendon’s note hid away. _Stop,_ he told the defective organ. _Calm down. Stop it. Please. Quit it._

It was alright. He’d be alright. 

That was it then, wasn’t it? He wasn’t going to call Spencer to say goodbye. But it didn’t matter, Spencer knew where was he was. If he really wanted to call, he could. And Z? Well, what was Ryan supposed to say to her? 

He wasn’t about to call his father. Not in a million years. 

There was no one else. 

Ryan was alone. 

Guess he was supposed to pack for his trip. His trip. He was going to see Brendon. Really, truly, he was. He was going to go see Brendon Urie again. Was he supposed to be this nervous? Brendon was his best friend. He shouldn’t feel so queasy at the idea of seeing him again. 

But it wasn’t exactly fear, was it? This feeling had to be named excitement. 

What did he need to pack? Enough clothes for at least a week. Chances were though, it would be longer than that. He didn’t know how long but a week didn’t feel like nearly enough. Not with Brendon. Brendon Urie was worth more than a week of Ryan’s time. 

Did he need nice clothes? Did Brendon go to church? No, but he used to. Casual then. Ryan would look casual. How did he do that again? He had worn varying versions of the same uniform for three years. Brendon Urie was going to see him without a uniform. He was going to see _Brendon_ without a uniform. 

He wondered what Brendon looked like when he wasn’t covered in dirt or in an army outfit. He wondered what Brendon Urie would look like when he was nothing except human. 

It was as he was finishing packing up his clothes that he stopped in front of the mirror. He reeled back with the surprise of it. He was a mess. Holy hell, he was a mess. 

His hair stuck up randomly and the bruising around his eye had grown angry and purple, his eye red and watery. The split across his cheekbone had a blue hue around it and there was a line of blood down the side of his head, gluing some of his hair to the side of his face with crimson. 

Brendon would _not_ be impressed. 

He didn’t have time to clean up though. He didn’t have time for anything. Ryan needed to get out of there. He needed to get out of Vegas. He had to get to Utah. 

And so, still looking like an absolute disaster, his pack—the same one he came home with not seven days ago—only half-closed and slung over his shoulder, Ryan Ross left his house in Vegas and made his way back to the train station. 

Bought himself a one-way ticket to Provo, Utah. 

He clambered onto the train and sat down, bag between his feet and he worked at his suspenders to make them more comfortable. A different sort of uniform on a different sort of train for a different sort of war. It was going to be a long ride. But it was worth it. Worth it for when he saw Brendon Urie in the flesh again in casual clothes. 

Ryan rested his bruised head up against the window and let out a sigh. When had he last slept? It didn’t matter. He would sleep now. He had nothing to keep him up. He could fall asleep. 

He took in a heavy breath, let it out, and closed his eyes. He wanted to tell himself not to dream of Brendon. Not to stir up any more memories. But his subconscious did what it wanted. And who was he to stop it?

If he wanted to come back to Vegas he could. If he wanted. Chances were though, he wouldn’t want to.

He listened to the train’s whistle, and felt it move, just as it had when it took him to Las Vegas from France. But this time, it was going in a different direction. 

He bought a one-way ticket to Brendon Urie. And he didn’t regret it. 

And sure, as he drifted off to the sound of train wheels moving, maybe he _did_ dream about Brendon Urie. Maybe. 

But that was no one’s business but his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Also, almost done with my outline of this bad-boy. Overall, you're looking at a 35 to 40 chapter fic. Hope you're willing to read that much; sorry if you're not. 
> 
> :)


	12. A Little Bit of What the Hell

Brendon was on Ryan in a second, rushing over to grab him by the arm to keep him steady. 

_What the hell?_ his brain screamed at him. _What the hell!_

“Holy shit,” was what Brendon chose to say aloud, staring at the black and blue face of Ryan Ross. “ _Ryan_ , holy shit.”

“Thanks,” Ryan returned, letting out a weak chuckle but not protesting as Brendon’s arms grabbed a hold of him. If anything, he leaned into the touch. “But I know what I look like.”

Brendon didn’t say anything back to the joke, simply shaking his head in shock as he tugged Ryan’s arm up and around his shoulders to let Ryan's body press against his side. At the new touch, Ryan pulled away from him, giving Brendon an incredulous look. 

“I can walk,” he argued and he sounded like a child complaining to a mother.

“Can you?” Brendon asked, disbelieving, as he continued to hold onto Ryan tightly. The skin was hot beneath his touch. 

Ryan didn’t say anything back. Shouldn’t argue with your mother.

“Here, c’mon," Brendon offered, attempting to help Ryan up to the door. "Let’s get you inside." 

Ryan didn’t actually have a very hard time walking, so his legs weren’t hurt—that was good—and his clothes seemed perfectly clean aside from the small hole in the knee of his pant’s leg, so Ryan was probably alright to walk on his own but Brendon couldn’t seem to let go as he tugged open the door and walked himself and Ryan inside. 

Ryan looked up and around in interest when they entered like he was trying to memorize every detail of Brendon’s barren apartment. Brendon should tell him to stop it. He didn’t like the apartment so Ryan wouldn’t like it either. 

There were mugs and dirty plates in the sink. A day old, half-filled coffee mug sat on the table in the living room and the current day’s newspaper was left on the floor. His house looked _terrible_. God, he was a disaster. 

Dammit, he should have cleaned. Why hadn't he cleaned?

He got Ryan to the center of the living room before depositing him roughly on the couch. The other man snorted to himself as his body connected with the sofa, bouncing slightly with the force that Brendon had dropped him with. Brendon cursed himself quietly; he should have been more careful. 

What if he had broken Ryan? The man looked fragile enough as it was. One rough push to a couch might be all that was needed to shatter him like glass.

Brendon straightened himself up and stared at Ryan there on his couch, blinking up at him through one clean whiskey-colored eye and a purple one. He looked awful. Really, really, terribly _awful_. Brendon couldn’t think of a time he had seen Ryan look this bad. And he was in _war_ with the man. But there was something to Ryan’s eyes that made it different than France. Some sort of glossy sheen. As though he didn’t care. Just _didn't_ care. 

_Shatter me,_ Ryan Ross’s whiskey eyes said. _Shatter me if you want; I don’t mind._

Brendon couldn’t help but stand there, speechless. What _happened_ to that boy? He opened his mouth to say something, anything at all regarding Ryan’s appearance but, before he could, Ryan—as if expecting the accusations—jumped in with, “I left my bag outside.”

“Your—” Brendon paused, wide-eyed. “Your bag?”

Ryan appeared sheepish, his eyes flashing all over Brendon's face. As if he was trying to get the best read from Brendon’s expression that he could. Watching him like he used to when they were in France and their faces were dirty and blood was streaked through Brendon's hair. When Ryan stared at him and something had flashed in his eyes that Brendon couldn't read. When Ryan told Brendon he was liable to go to Hell for killing a man. 

Brendon’s heart did an uneasy lurch in his chest. 

This was wrong. This was all so wrong. 

“Yeah, right... your bag,” Brendon repeated. “I saw it in the hall. I’ll—” He hooked a thumb behind him, at the door he hadn’t bothered to close because of how concerned on getting the damaged Ryan into his house he had been. “I’ll get it. Right. I’ve got it.”

Ryan mumbled a small thanks in response, not taking his eyes off of Brendon as he turned to jog out of the room and into the hallway, his mind reeling and his heart beating out of sink with the pump of his blood. 

His body was going into overdrive. Is this what a heart attack felt like? No. This was some sort of death though. Is this what dying in itself was like? A buzzing in your veins, a waver in your legs as though you could drop at any second if you stopped. But _no_ , Brendon supposed. This wasn’t a heart attack and this wasn’t any death coming to collect his soul. 

This was just Ryan.

Ryan Ross was in _his_ living room, on _his_ couch, covered in bruises and blood. What the hell was that all about? What in the living hell? Brendon’s hands were shaking as he picked up Ryan’s bag. It was heavy. What was in this thing? You could fit an entire life in that bag. Brendon would know; he had been able to fit three years in his. So Ryan Ross packed his life then. He brought his life to Brendon. Why? What the hell was Ryan even doing there?

Brendon entered back into his house, shutting the door cautiously behind him and dropping Ryan’s bag next to it with a gentle thud. He stood in front of the door, blocking the exit. As though Ryan might try to escape. But he wasn’t about to let that happen. Not before Ryan answered several very important questions. One of which; _what the hell?_

Although, Ryan didn’t look like he had any plans of running as he sat on Brendon’s couch, hands holding each other and sitting awkwardly in his lap. It was odd to Brendon how small Ryan was on that couch, closed in on himself. 

There was plenty of room; he should tell Ryan to spread out. 

“Hi,” Ryan greeted in a quiet voice.

“Hey,” Brendon answered in a similar way. 

They stared at one another. Brendon, after assuring himself that Ryan wasn’t going to bolt out of his home—and that he probably couldn’t, judging by the way he looked—took a careful step forward. Folded his arms over his chest and glanced to the side, away from Ryan. Anywhere else. 

Ryan didn’t take his eyes off of Brendon. 

“You gonna tell me what happened to your face?” Brendon asked. 

Ryan gave a crooked smile, one Brendon was sure he’d been practicing. “I fell.”

Brendon shot him a look from the corner of his eyes. “On what? A fist?”

Ryan’s smile was quick to drown away at the comment and Brendon had a split second of regret. Ryan diverted his eyes away from Brendon and to his lap where he fiddled with his thumbs. 

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Sort of.”

Brendon licked at his lips and took a few more slow steps toward him. “What do you mean ‘sort of’? You can’t be ‘sort of’ punched.”

“Okay, yeah, no 'sort of' then. I was punched.” Ryan turned his whiskey eyes up at Brendon to see him come closer. “That’s how it is. I was punched.”

Brendon sucked in a hard breath and walked the rest of the way to his friend. Ryan was sitting in the center of the couch, so no matter which side Brendon sat on, he would have to be up against Ryan's side. He didn’t ask Ryan to move however, opting to sit on Ryan’s left, shoulder to shoulder. 

Ryan didn’t move away. 

“Who hit you?” Brendon prompted, peering at Ryan from the corner of his eyes but keeping his face front. 

Ryan tapped his thumbs together. “Uh, it’s sort of a long story.”

“I’ve got time.” Yes. For Ryan Ross, Brendon had all the time that was needed. All the time in the world.

Ryan wet his lips. “My dad hit me.”

There was a beat. Brendon tried to smile. “That wasn’t so long.”

His attempt at humor worked partially and Ryan hacked out a pitiful laugh, one that hurt Brendon’s heart. He finally turned to his side, to face Ryan, held his profile in his gaze. Took into account the cut on Ryan's cheek that was turning yellow and ugly blue around the edges. The bruised, squinted eye. The red that irritated his sclera. The dried smear of blood through his hair and on the side of his face, as if maybe Ryan had tried to wipe it off with his hand to no avail. The hole in his pants' leg. And finally, the ragged bandages wrapped haphazardly around his hands. 

That boy looked like he walked right out of Hell with nothing but his army pack. 

“Your dad did this to you?” Brendon asked in a low voice and Ryan reluctantly met his gaze. 

Their faces were far too close then and they both pulled back with the surprise of it. Ryan gave an awkward glance around as if to pretend that action hadn’t happened and he shifted back on the couch away from Brendon, his warmth disappearing. Brendon stayed where he was. 

“Well, no,” Ryan said, sounding like he was trying to make an excuse. He gestured with a finger to the bruise on his eye and the slice on his cheek. “Only this.”

Brendon surveyed the other injuries with narrowed eyes. “And the rest?” 

Ryan smiled. “I really _did_ fall.”

Brendon laughed at that hopeful smile, shaking his head. “Damn. How?”

“Well, this—” Ryan fumbled with his bloody hair, revealing a long cut along his temple— “He knocked me down. Hit the floor too hard. Just a bit though, I'm fine. Flesh wound, y'know? And, uh, this—” He opened up his hands to show Brendon the ugly bandaging— “I fell down the front steps.”

“Holy cow, Ryan.” Brendon stared up at him and Ryan acted embarrassed, darting his eyes out of Brendon’s gaze. 

Each of them spent too long waiting for the other to speak.

Brendon chewed at the inside of his bottom lip before asking, “So… What are you doing... I mean, why are you _here_ , Ryan?”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so critical, but by the way that Ryan raised his face—panic etched across his damaged features—it was obvious Brendon had asked the question with too much accusation. 

“I—” Ryan moved back on the couch, using his injured hands to grab for his shirt pocket, reaching in it and pulling out a folded napkin. “I thought you wanted me to come.”

Brendon furrowed his brows, frowning, and took the napkin from Ryan's hand. He tilted his head, opening up the object and blinking in surprise when seeing the contents. 

That was his handwriting. And that was Ryan’s address written right above his own. He turned it over. 

_Nowhere,_ the note in Brendon’s handwriting said, _it’s in Clearfield, Utah._

Brendon stared down at the note in his hands. Alright, what the hell? When did he write this? When did he— _Jon Walker you bastard._ Brendon cursed lowly under his breath, gripping the napkin in his hand. 

Of course this was Brendon’s reality. A note he wrote on a napkin in a gay club when he was drunk off his ass. Great. Just great. So _this_ must have been what deal he made with Jon Walker then. Sing free for two weeks if he mailed a napkin to Ryan Ross in Las Vegas. 

Las Vegas. 

That was a pretty far ways from Utah, wasn’t it? Brendon turned to look at Ryan staring at him with fearful eyes. That was a terribly long way. 

“Did you come all the way from Vegas?” Brendon asked, still holding onto the napkin. There was no way. There was no way that Ryan up and dropped everything to come and see _Brendon_. Jon had sent the letter a week ago. That was five days in the mail before Ryan got it. And then… Well, that had to mean that Ryan left the day after he got it. Or maybe the day of depending on how he traveled. 

Holy shit. 

Ryan nodded slowly. “Is-is that alright?”

“Oh I—” Brendon started but Ryan interrupted him again.

“Was I not supposed to come?” There as blatant fear on Ryan’s face. “I’m sorry, I just thought that—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Brendon cut him off roughly, holding up one hand to silence Ryan and using the other to place the napkin on his coffee table. “It’s alright Ryan. Yeah. Yeah, of course. You were supposed to come. I wanted you to. Just didn’t think it’d be so soon s’all. I only sent this a week ago.”

Ryan stared at him and Brendon could see the tension leave his shoulders through a sharp exhale. “Oh, right. Yeah. It’s only that—I mean, it’s not like I had anything else to do, right?”

Brendon watched Ryan fidget on his couch, all scared whiskey eyes and awkward, shaky movements of his fingers. He looked terrible. Really, really terrible. It had only been a week; how could he be such a wreck already? Sure, maybe Brendon wasn’t having the best time either—not that anything about his life was bad—but Ryan… Ryan looked like life had taken him, chewed him up, and spit him out. 

And he smelled godawful. 

“When did this happen, Ryan?” Brendon asked. 

“Uh—” Ryan thought on it. “Yesterday afternoon.”

For show, Brendon pinched his nose. “Have you had a bath since then?” 

Ryan let out a loud laugh at the action and Brendon smiled, rejoicing in that sound. “No. No, I’m sorry. I bet I reek.”

“You do,” Brendon agreed, still grinning. “Worse than war, the smell on you, Ryan Ross.” 

“Damn, I’m sorry.” Ryan peered down at himself. 

“It’s alright,” Brendon said for what felt like the hundredth time in the last twenty minutes. “I have a bathroom. I’ll run you a bath if you want.”

Ryan started to open his mouth to reply before he stopped. Swallowed. Forced a smile. “That would be great, Bren. Really, thanks. Thanks for that.”

Brendon’s stomach turned slightly at the name. He had missed hearing that name. The way Ryan’s voice sounded when he said it.

“It’s just…” Ryan chuckled feebly, showing off his crudely bandaged hands to Brendon. “I don’t know. My hands are cut up pretty bad and the thought of holding a bar of soap isn’t so appealing right now.”

“You haven’t cleaned the cuts yet?” Brendon replied, alarmed. The man had been in _war_ ; surely he should know how to clean a wound properly. Hell, he had cleaned Brendon's before. What? He couldn't show himself the same curtesy?

Ryan shrugged. “Hasn’t seemed to be enough time.”

There was a pause and Brendon looked him up and down, all over. 

“I could—” He paused. Was this an awkward proposal? Absolutely. Was he still going to ask it? Absolutely. “I could help if you want; I don’t mind.”

Ryan studied Brendon, as if waiting for Brendon to back out with a laugh. Brendon didn’t though. His offer stood. He didn’t mean anything by it really. Just offering to help out a friend. That was all.

That was all.

“You mean—” Ryan waved between Brendon and himself— “Help me take a bath? Isn’t that... sorta odd?”

Brendon snorted. Felt a sense of panic rising as he tried to reason. He was careful not to show it, though. “I’m not asking you to strip down, Ryan. I’m offering to help you with getting your hands and face cleaned up. You wouldn’t even have to take off your undershirt. Just an offer.”

Ryan considered it before he nodded slowly, hesitantly. As if he was sure he would regret the decision later. “Yeah. Sure. Like that day down at the creek, yeah?”

Brendon blinked. The day at the creek. He had forgotten all about that. That was almost two years ago now. Wow. The day at the creek in Metz when Ryan and he had stripped their shirts off and rolled their pants up and waded around in clear water and sat on sun-bathing rocks, and—Hadn’t Brendon lost a ring that day?

His rings. Those had skipped his mind too, hidden away in the side pocket of his pack. He hadn’t taken those out since he got home. He’d forgotten all about them. 

“Yeah,” Brendon agreed and he couldn't help but smile at the memory of Ryan Ross dipping his toes in the water. “Like the creek. Why would it be any different?”

“I mean it’ll be a little bloodier,” Ryan teased.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Brendon returned and he stood off the couch, gesturing for Ryan to follow. Had to do this quick before either of them backed out. His veins were still thrumming. “I did go to war after all, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Ryan stood as well and wandered after him. He was limping worse than Brendon remembered. “I did too.”

“Did you really?” Brendon asked, mockingly surprised, and he smirked at Ryan as he walked inside his tiny bathroom. He started the bath with worrying fingers and closed the drain, listening to the sound of water rushing into the basin of the tub. This was actually happening. He was running his war buddy a bath in his house. Ryan watched the water pour.

A similar sound to the one the creek made when it ran that day. Brendon could hear the echo in his ears. But not as smooth. Not as kind. 

“You sure you’re willing to waste all this water on me?” Ryan asked, continuing to track the way the water filled up the space. 

“Oh, this isn’t for you,” Brendon said, turning and sitting on the edge of the tub. Ryan sat on the closed toilet lid. Their knees nearly touched. “This is for me.”

Ryan made a face. 

“Because I can’t stand a second more of you smelling like that.” 

“Oh right. Right.” Ryan laughed and the corner of his eyes crinkled. Brendon traced the lines with his eyes, memorizing the way Ryan squinted, even through the bruising around one. He looked impossibly young, sitting there in Brendon’s bathroom on a closed toilet seat, bloody. He was older than Brendon but somehow, he appeared smaller, more vulnerable. 

Brendon tried to laugh with him but he was too concerned to manage it fully. 

“Hey, go ahead and unwrap your hands; I want to see,” Brendon insisted. 

Ryan obeyed, tugging at the cloth around his hands and wincing as he did so. When he had successfully removed the cloth, dumping it into the trash can beside the toilet, he turned his hands over for Brendon, palms up. 

Brendon grimaced at the sight of the many thin slices across Ryan’s hands. Luckily though, none of them were deep and Brendon doubted they would bleed anymore. He reached out to take one of Ryan’s hands in his own and turn it over. Only on the palms, that was good. 

“You’re dramatic." Brendon dropped the hand. "These aren’t bad.” 

“Sting like a bitch though,” Ryan muttered, holding his hands close.

“I was worried they’d be deep," Brendon said, wiping his own hands on his pants. "But they’re not, so I want to put some hydrogen peroxide on them. Not on your head though, I think that one is too big for peroxide.”

Ryan absently touched at the cut on his skull but didn’t say anything.

Brendon spun around on the edge of the tub, turning off the faucet, and getting up to walk past Ryan. He bent down to the cabinet beneath his sink to retrieve the hydrogen peroxide. He had bought it a few days before he was deployed so it was unopened. Still good. He straightened up, setting it in the sink. 

“So we’ll wash with water and then we’ll—” He turned, his sentence fading out to see Ryan Ross kicking out of his pants. 

He had already unhooked his suspenders and they hung limp from his waist. Brendon blinked a few times, trying to clear his foggy head. This wasn’t weird. This _wasn’t_ weird. This was just Ryan, one of his best friends in the world, undressing in his bathroom not five feet away. Brendon looked away as soon as Ryan straightened up, afraid to be caught. Ryan didn't notice, folding his pants to put them on the toilet seat. 

This was weird. This was really fucking weird. 

“We’ll put peroxide on it when we finish, alright?” Brendon asked, doing his best to pretend like his heart wasn’t beating too an erratic rhythm. 

“Alright,” Ryan agreed, nodding in consideration. He was staring at Brendon seriously as he reached up to unbutton his white dress shirt, which he had tucked into his pants but now—since his pants were gone—the shirt hung down over his striped briefs instead.

Brendon noticed as Ryan unbuttoned his shirt, that his fingers were trembling and his bare chest was being revealed. Brendon nodded his head slowly to himself, unable to move his eyes. “You don’t wear an undershirt.”

Because of course he didn’t. Because he just wanted to make things that much harder for Brendon. He bet Ryan enjoyed making him squirm. 

“Hate them,” Ryan said in explanation. “Too hot.”

Brendon nodded. “Right.”

“I can keep this shirt on if you want,” Ryan said, pausing his fingers’ pursuit on the buttons. 

Brendon shook his head. Tried not to disagree too quickly. “No, it’ll be awful to take a bath in a starched shirt.”

Ryan continued to undo his buttons, focusing his eyes back down at them to concentrate. “I mean, I think it’ll be awful to take a bath in my briefs too.”

“You are _not_ taking those off,” Brendon said swiftly—because that would definitely be too much to handle—and Ryan smiled up at him. Brendon could tell he had been joking and his heart did a strange flip at the sight of that smile. “I have to draw the line somewhere.”

He was drawing it. There would be no naked Ryan Ross in this house. The line was drawn. 

Ryan merely snickered to himself as he tugged his shirt off, folding it up nicely, and placing it on top of his pants. Brendon took that moment to survey Ryan shamelessly, standing in nothing but his briefs in Brendon’s own bathroom. Dallon would tell him this was risky, this ogling, and also very very stupid. And Brendon agreed. Didn’t mean that would stop him though. 

Ryan was too skinny, his ribs showing through his pale skin, and Brendon wondered if he was eating right. Or eating at all. But he didn’t look _bad_. His stomach was flat and he had dimples on his back, and Brendon could watch the ridges of his spine move beneath his skin when Ryan bent over to set his clothes down. 

He didn’t look bad at all. 

When he stood back up, Brendon moved his eyes elsewhere. Prayed Ryan didn’t notice. 

If he did, he didn’t say anything, only asking, “All set?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Brendon nodded, gesturing to the half-filled tub. “Feel free.”

Ryan didn’t reply with words and didn’t hesitate for very long before he stepped over the edge of the tub carefully, holding the sides to lower himself in. As if the water would burn him when he touched it. Brendon hadn’t even made it hot. 

He sank slowly. Like a ring to the bottom of a creek. 

_Make a wish,_ Brendon thought bitterly. 

He wished he understood what the hell was going on. 

Once Ryan was successfully sitting in the tub, he pulled his hands off the sides and settled them into the water. Twitched quietly at the feeling and Brendon smiled sadly at him, starting to take off his own vest. 

Ryan looked over at him and suddenly his eyes went wide, flickering all over Brendon, watching him pull the article of clothing off. He looked too afraid. Why did Ryan look so afraid of Brendon taking off his vest? He had been the one to get down to his boxers in a matter of mere moments. Brendon hadn't asked him to do that.

“What are you doing?” Ryan asked.

“Taking off my dress clothes,” Brendon replied as if Ryan was stupid for asking. “I don’t want to get my nice stuff all bloody.”

Ryan scowled playfully but the answer seemed to have appeased him. “I’m so sorry that my blood is such a hassle for you.”

“I’ll manage,” Brendon teased back and took off his own white dress shirt. “But unlike you, I actually do wear undershirts.”

“Thank God for that,” Ryan said, never taking his eyes off Brendon as he settled his own clothes on top of Ryan’s. Brendon did his best to untuck the white tank top from his pants. Usually, he would take his belt off too, but that felt like it was pressing his luck. 

And his luck was already significantly pressed.

Brendon came over to kneel beside the tub, bringing a bar of soap and washcloth with him from the sink. He set them on the rim of the bath and grinned at Ryan. The whole situation made him feel like laughing. 

Ryan sitting in Brendon’s bathtub in nothing but his briefs, legs folded Indian style, and hands resting underwater in his lap, looking far, far too young. And Brendon, in a tank top and suit pants, leaned next to the bath about to bathe him. It was laughable. 

Brendon didn’t ask him any more questions about how he wanted to do things, simply took the washcloth and dipped it into the water. Ryan watched him do so. 

He’d missed Ryan watching him. Like when they were in war. Observing everything he did like Brendon was someone who _needed_ to be watched. Someone who was worth the attention.

There was a tense silence as Brendon took the strip of fabric and reached up to Ryan. He paused before he touched it to Ryan’s head, looking at Ryan questioningly. 

Ryan smiled at him. “You’re allowed to touch me, Bren, I don’t mind. Do whatever you want.”

Brendon nodded at the admission and reached over to press the cloth to the side of Ryan’s head where the deeper cut was placed. Ryan shut his eyes and let out a small breath. Brendon frowned. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won't.”

Brendon wiped at the cut with cautious fingers, dabbing on the wound itself, and dragging the cloth over the dried blood on Ryan’s face. Ryan didn’t say anything as he did so, only sat politely in the tub and waited for Brendon to finish. 

“Like the war,” Ryan said. 

Brendon glanced at him as he pressed the reddened cloth to Ryan’s temple. 

“When you cut your eyebrow.” Ryan bobbed his head at the slice on Brendon’s face that would never heal and yes, he was right. It was like the war when Brendon cut his eyebrow and Ryan had sat in his lap for close to an hour, pressing a torn sleeve (the only cloth they had) to Brendon’s face. 

Brendon agreed, “Yeah. You’re right. Like the war.”

And it was. Just like the war. That’s all it was.

Brendon dunked the cloth into the tub water beside Ryan’s bare leg—which he was careful not to accidentally graze—and proceeded to ring it out on top of Ryan’s head so water ran through his hair and down his face. 

He blinked water out of his eyes and Brendon smiled at him. He did it a few more times to get Ryan’s hair wet before using his fingers to card through the locks. They were tangled and soft, slipping between his knuckles.

“I’m gonna wash your hair,” Brendon said aloud without really thinking about it. 

Ryan had his eyes closed. “You don’t have to.”

“Well, _you_ can’t do it," he argued. "Your hands are screwed.”

Ryan snickered but didn’t say anything, keeping his eyes closed as Brendon squeezed shampoo into his hands and focused back in on Ryan’s hair. He pressed his fingers against Ryan’s scalp, massaging through his hair and rubbing curls of it between his fingers. It felt nice.

It seemed like Ryan agreed as he kept his eyes closed through the process. 

Ryan let his lips part barely, tilting his head back so that Brendon could dig his fingers through Ryan’s hair, work through the mess and massage straight through to his brain. Brendon watched as Ryan’s Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. Tracked the way it moved with his eyes. 

“So you missed me that much, huh?” Brendon teased after a few minutes of silence, trying to distract himself from whatever it was that Ryan thought he was doing. Sitting there half-naked in a tub with his eyes closed and lips parted, jugular bouncing. “Came the first time I called.”

Ryan’s open lips curled up in a soft simper. “I told you, there wasn’t anything better to do.”

His voice was too quiet. This was too intimate. Brendon swallowed. 

“Things didn’t work out with what’s her name?” Brendon asked, darting his eyes around Ryan’s face as he dipped his hands in the water to wash the shampoo off. 

Ryan's smile was quick to fade away. He blinked his eyes open and didn’t seem to mind when the white bubbles of soap got into them. “Z is her name. And uh… no. No, they didn’t.”

Brendon raked his clean hands through Ryan’s hair, brushing suds of soap out. He tried his best not to sound too curious. But he was. He was dying to know. Had to be contentious though. Sore subject. “What happened?”

“She thought I was dead." Ryan licked at his lips. "Like you said. You were right.”

And Brendon wished he wasn’t. Not if it made Ryan look this sad.

Ryan added, as though he felt obligated to, “She’s dating Spencer.”

Brendon made a face as he combed his fingers through Ryan’s hair. “Smith? That buddy of yours?”

Ryan nodded blankly. 

Brendon scoffed. “Hell sort of friend is he? Going out with your girl?”

“Eh.” Ryan shrugged. “I can’t blame them. They thought I was dead.”

There was silence except for the trickle of water into the tub from Ryan’s hair. Brendon hadn’t stopped brushing it with his fingers. He feared what would happen if he did.

“I’m sorry to hear that Ryan,” Brendon said back. But he wasn’t really. Z and Spencer didn’t seem like the sort of friends he wanted Ryan to have. If they were willing to do that. So he wasn’t sorry things didn’t work out. He was only sorry Ryan was upset. 

Ryan didn’t say anything though. Kept his eyes focused on the soapy water. 

“Here,” Brendon said. “I have to baptize you now.” 

“Wh—” Ryan started to look over in confusion but Brendon didn’t let him get anything else out as he reached out to cover Ryan’s mouth and nose with a hand, shoving him underwater to rinse his hair. 

Ryan didn’t even make a move to fight back; he grabbed onto Brendon’s wrist but it was a loose grip that held no malice. He let Brendon push him under the water and hold him there as Brendon rinsed his hair. If Brendon wanted to, he bet that Ryan would let him drown him right then and there.

He let Ryan up from the water, using a hand on the back of Ryan’s neck to pull him up to the surface. 

Ryan took in a small breath, blinking water out of his eyelashes. 

“Next time,” he said quietly. “You should warn a guy.”

Brendon laughed. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it. Element of surprise.”

Ryan shook his head but smiled to himself as Brendon went back to rinsing out his hair in the water. They went through the same process in silence with conditioner. Ryan didn’t complain when Brendon touched his bare shoulders or his back or held one side of his face with one hand and wiped the other side with the cloth. 

Ryan didn’t complain at all. Let Brendon have his way with him. 

Brendon didn’t know if that made him sad or not. Ryan’s complete lack of fight. It worried him. Those shatter-me whiskey eyes and all those bruises. Brendon's heart ached for him. 

“Are things… Are they alright with you?” Ryan asked when Brendon had both hands on his face, one smoothing his hair back and the other wiping over his bruised eye. 

“Yeah, sure,” Brendon replied. “Things are good for me.”

“I’m glad.” And he sounded genuinely like he was.

“And things with you…?” Brendon gave a pained laugh, looking Ryan over. Ryan opened his good eye to watch. “Seem pretty shitty, I won’t lie.” 

“They are,” Ryan agreed but he was smiling somehow. “Things are really shitty.”

“I’m sorry.” And Brendon really meant it. 

“Yeah." Ryan puckered his lips. "Me too.”

“You wanna hear some good news?” Brendon asked. 

Ryan peered over at him. “I would love to.”

Brendon started to stand, turning to tug a towel off the rack on the wall to give to Ryan. “You don’t smell like shit anymore.”

Ryan laughed, starting to shift in the tub. “That _is_ good news.”

Brendon walked back to pull the drain on the tub as Ryan started to stand from the soapy water, his briefs sopping wet. Brendon handed the towel over, pointing down at the dripping underwear. “You might wanna get out of those. Can’t have you ruining my floor.”

Ryan smiled in response and Brendon was happy he did, no matter how broken the smile was. “You’re gonna have to leave the room for that.”

Brendon opened his mouth to make some sort of joke but there was a loud knock to interrupt him, and thank God he had kept the bathroom door open because, otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to hear that. He cast a glance over his shoulder. Wait, why would someone be at his door? It was somewhere around five in the morning. It was far too early for someone to be ringing him. 

“Just a minute, Ryan. Go ahead and dry yourself off, I’ll be back,” Brendon said and Ryan nodded, although he had his eyebrows drawn up and it was obvious that he was thinking the same thing as Brendon. What the hell?

Brendon made his way from the bathroom, drawing the door closed as he went. There was a knock again. 

Two rough clicks and a full handed slap and Brendon should have known. Who else in the world cared about him?

“Give me a minute, Dal,” he called as the knock came again. He made it to the door and tugged it partially open, only enough so that he could lean his body in the doorframe, obscuring his apartment (and bathroom) from sight. He tried to make it not too obvious that he was blocking Dallon’s view. 

Sure enough, Dallon Weekes stood there, flashing a dodgy smile. His hair was parted cleanly and it looked like he brushed it back. Brendon didn't miss the way that his eyes skimmed him over though, Dallon's eyes widening partially. Must have been the fact that Brendon was in a tank top and slacks, splattered with water. Dallon shook his head before looking back up at his face. He said, “Hey, Brendon.”

“Hey, Dal,” Brendon replied and his forehead creased as he folded his arms. “What’re you doing? It’s five in the morning.”

“Six actually,” Dallon corrected. “So I don’t think I’m too early.”

Six, really? How long had they been at The Church? It felt as though Brendon had only just gotten home. Granted, it took him close to an hour to walk home and he had left the bar around three or so, as he often did. How long had he been giving Ryan Ross a bath? 

“Oh, okay. Did—” He looked Dallon up and down. He was in the same clothes from The Church. Brendon's frown deepened. “Did you even sleep, Dallon?”

“Couldn’t,” came the reply. 

Brendon blinked up at him, at those excited blue eyes. 

“And I figured," Dallon went on, bouncing on his heels. "If I wasn’t going to sleep anyway, why not invite you out to breakfast? We always do dinner. Thought a change might be nice.” 

So what? Was Dallon trying to cater to him? Had he noticed Brendon’s unease at the routine of his new life? Is that what was happening? Brendon had to smile slightly because that really was a wonderfully nice thing for Dallon to do—he was a great guy—but

“Maybe another time, Dal," Brendon tried, shifting. "I’m sort of in the middle of something here." 

Dallon’s face fell for a moment, but then it changed and he only looked confused. “What? What would you be—” 

Apparently that seemed the perfect opportunity to Ryan Ross for him to walk out of Brendon’s bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, just a little too far below the navel, hair messy and wet, looking around like he was lost—and if Brendon were a different person and if Ryan were a different person, Brendon would have pounced right then and there—asking, too loudly for an apartment, “Bren, where did you put my clothes?”

Brendon froze and Dallon froze and Ryan didn’t seem to notice, continuing through the house, water dripping from his hair and down his chest in shimmering speckles. Brendon wished he had done a better job closing the door because his head didn’t do a very good job of concealing Ryan from view. 

He didn’t take his eyes off Dallon however, watching the older man track Ryan’s movements through the house with wide blue eyes. Great. This was great. 

“Dallon, listen—” Brendon started but he didn’t even get the sentence out before Dallon had turned and walked off down the hall. Brendon reeled back with the shock of it.

That wasn’t what he had been expecting at all. He expected a stern talking to about safety and making sure not to get so drunk again. He expected a parental lecture about the dangers of homosexual sex and being caught as a fag (even though that’s not what he was doing with Ryan. Ryan was very straight, so that wasn’t even an option. Ryan also thought Brendon was very straight. That could be a very big problem). He certainly did not expect Dallon, a newfound rage in those handsome blue eyes of his, to make a bolt for it. 

“Your bag’s by the door, Ryan. I’ll be right back,” Brendon called over his shoulder and he didn’t wait for Ryan’s reply as he rushed out of the apartment and down the hall after his best friend. 

“Dallon? Dallon!” he called, jogging down the stairwell after him. “Dallon, what the hell, pal? Where're you going?”

Dallon turned heel swiftly at the bottom of the stairs, Brendon on the step above him so they were level in height. Why did Dallon look so angry? Practically furious. It wasn’t like Brendon had done anything exceptionally bad. Scratch that, he hadn’t done _anything_ bad. He was helping out a friend, nothing more. 

“Look, I’m sorry, Dal,” Brendon tried. “But listen he’s not—”

“Did you even think about me?” Dallon snapped, sounding extremely more distressed than Dallon Weekes was supposed to. If Brendon really thought on it, Dallon sounded _hurt_. That was not what Brendon had expected either.

“Of you?” Brendon repeated and he couldn’t keep the alarm from his features. “What? Why would I? Why does this matter so much? It’s not like—”

Brendon didn’t even get the chance to finish his sentence as Dallon took him roughly by the sides of his face with both hands and pressed his lips to Brendon’s. 

It was a hard, unexpected kiss that had Dallon’s teeth clicking against Brendon’s lips a little too hard, probably bruising them, and it was so hurried that Brendon didn’t even have time to kiss back if he wanted to before Dallon had jerked himself away, staggering backward. He let out a heavy, shallow breath and Brendon stared at him, dumbfounded. 

Dallon wiped his mouth with a shaky hand and his voice was harsh. “That’s why.”

Without even waiting for a response, Dallon had turned again and raced down the stairs two at a time. Brendon watched him go, his body radiating with shock. 

“What the hell,” he whispered. 

No seriously. 

_What the hell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, two chapters in one day? I'm going crazy, I know. But I wanted to go ahead and write this one before I got bogged down by work.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	13. Girls in Nancy

Ryan wavered for a moment in the middle of Brendon Urie’s house, unsure of what exactly to do with himself. Brendon had left the apartment a few minutes ago so it was only Ryan, trapped alone in a house that wasn’t his. 

He felt like an invader in this house; he wasn’t supposed to be here. 

It was cute, Brendon’s home. Or at least Ryan thought so. Something right out of a catalog; all clean paint and minimal furniture. Not very home _y_ though. 

No flowers, no markings or paintings on the walls. There weren’t any pictures of family and once again Ryan was forced to wonder about them with no answer. Who was Brendon’s father? What was his name? Brendon’s mother? Did he have siblings? Did he like them? Did he look more like his mother or his father? Were his siblings as good looking as he was?

It didn’t strike Ryan as a lived-in home. Sure, there were dirty mugs and plates so it was obvious someone stayed there but… there was nothing personal. 

It looked like a house that someone _used_ to live in. A house that a widow owned; that described it best. A house that used to be inhabited, used to be loved, but the tenant was dead and their lover was forced to carry on drearily without them. 

He wondered who Brendon was the widower of. Perhaps a widower of himself. 

Ryan understood that. His own home felt the same as Brendon’s. Always like it was someone else’s.

But Brendon’s three-room apartment was nice. It was. Not too large, not too small. Perfect for one man. A small bathroom—which Ryan had become familiar with—a kitchen and joint living room divided only by a small breakfast bar attached to the wall, and Brendon’s bedroom. 

Ryan blinked over at the room, debated on what he wanted to do. 

He wasn’t in anything other than the towel Brendon had handed over to him. Get dressed first. Before he did anything else, he should get dressed. He felt barren and awkward in the empty house, still dappled with water droplets down his back. 

Ryan was far too skinny. He could see his own ribs jutting out underneath his skin and they upset him every time he looked down. He rubbed his hands across his brittle bones, barely concealed by a papery layer of white tissue, trying to push them in. Back beneath his flesh. 

He bet he looked feeble, like a wet bird where all you could see were its ruined feathers and its bones. Ryan Ross was a broken bird. 

What was this body for? He still wasn’t quite sure. It didn’t feel like his own. 

He’d felt naked before even with his clothes on. That wasn’t close to how awful he felt now. Unsure and humiliated. Brendon pitied him. That’s why he offered the bath. He pitied Ryan something awful. Just like Spencer and Z had. Although, there was a different sort of look to Brendon’s eyes. A different sort of care. 

An understanding that Z and Spencer couldn’t hope to have. 

A gentleness to Brendon’s hands when he’d washed Ryan’s hair. A cocked head and a soft smile as Ryan sat there. Ryan wished he’d been more conversational. Wished he’d given Brendon more than a pathetic silence as he washed him. Tried to get rid of all the dirt and sin that covered him. 

It didn’t feel like it was gone.

Ryan went through his pack and picked out a grey, short-sleeved shirt and a new pair of briefs (seeing as his original were soaked). He left the wet pair folded on the side of the tub in Brendon’s bathroom; he didn’t know where else to put it. 

Ryan put peroxide on his own hands and watched the cuts bubble. It stung. But not any worse than the water first had when he got into the bath, so it wasn’t bad. Bath. He’d seriously let Brendon Urie give him a bath, hadn’t he? He could have done it himself. Sure, it wouldn’t have felt very nice. Soap in all these cuts but it would have been—Would he have preferred bathing himself? 

He wouldn’t lie, it had been nice. Brendon’s fingers in his hair, holding onto the side of his face. A little too nice, really. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding the entire time. At one point, when Brendon had taken both sides of his face between his palms and just held Ryan there, searching all over his face for any more marks, Ryan had felt ready to burst. _Is this what dying feels like?_ He had wondered. 

Brendon’s skin had been searing hot to the touch. And Ryan loved burning. 

He wondered where Brendon had gone off to. 

He used his time alone in the house to walk in circles, going between the kitchen and the living room and then into the bathroom and back through again. Perhaps on each trip, he could discover something new. He collected Brendon’s littered cups and plates from the coffee table in the living room and carried them into the kitchen to put in the sink. 

Ryan paused on his third or so trip around the house at Brendon’s bedroom door. He blinked, staring into the darkened room. The bed wasn’t made and covers were tossed all about. 

He wondered if Brendon thrashed in his sleep. It appeared so. If Brendon had nightmares. 

What did Brendon Urie dream about that made him ruin the bed? Ryan pondered if they were similar to his own. Or if maybe Brendon and he had different ghosts haunting them. 

Ryan walked further into the room, standing in the door frame before flicking on the lights. It was a simple enough room. A bedside table with an empty vase and a pair of reading glasses. Brendon needed glasses? 

Ryan tried to visualize his friend in spectacles and for the life of him, he couldn’t make out a proper image. 

There was a large mirror opposite the bed and Ryan wondered why that would be in the slightest bit beneficial. Just so you could see yourself wake up, looking horrible. Or he supposed one could use that mirror for watching—

He cringed back a little. Ryan hadn’t taken Brendon for the kind. Then again, he got plenty frisky with the girls in France. Only fair that he took that behavior home with him. Dames in the U.S. should get to experience Brendon Urie too. French girls couldn’t keep him all to themselves. 

The bed was large, definitely big enough for two people. 

Ryan wondered what sort of person Brendon Urie would be willing to share a bed with. Who was worth Brendon Urie’s love and affection? 

What sort of girl would Brendon love?

Did he like them sweet? Demure? Did he want to love someone? Or did he want to spend the night with them and toss them out when morning came? He’d never spoken of a girlfriend before. Ryan would have remembered something like that. He spoke to his conquests, however. Like all the other men had done. 

So Brendon Urie was a devil. That’s who he was. Evil with those black eyes and those full lips. Ryan should have known. Pretty people were hardly ever peaceful. 

He thought about Brendon’s smirk, positively wicked, as he came back that one night in Nancy when it was pitch black outside and Ryan was on watch.

The lantern Ryan had on was dim and he was using the musky light to read Mike Naran’s baby bible. Mike never found out he had taken it. Ryan supposed that the bible must not have meant very much to Mike if he didn’t even notice it missing. Ryan was getting better use out of it anyway. Or he was trying to, anyhow. 

He still couldn’t make any sense of it. God, or whoever was out there. But he didn’t have anything else to read. No actual books or stories to divulge his interest in. So he had settled to rereading the bible. He’d gone through it about four or five times. The same words. 

He kept waiting to find a new meaning. Something to latch onto. Something to finally put faith in. 

God seemed just as dull every time. 

There were dirty fingerprints in the margins of the page where Ryan had turned them. He was ruining the little book steadily. Smearing it with dirt and scratching pencil drawings in between paragraphs where he could fit them. 

He wasn’t a good drawer. Not at all. But it kept his mind at ease. 

He was underlining a certain verse. James 4:1-2. Ryan still had it memorized.

_1 What causes fights and quarrels among you? Don’t they come from your desires that battle within you? 2 You desire but do not have, so you kill. You covet but you cannot get what you want, so you quarrel and fight. You do not have because you do not ask God._

Yes, because that was why Ryan fought a war. Because he didn’t ask God the right questions. 

There was a crack of twigs nearby and Ryan looked up in surprise, scrambling to grab his rifle nearby. He went to turn out his lantern; if someone was coming he wanted darkness. Perhaps they could walk by without seeing him. 

Don’t fire until you know you need to. 

Ryan raised his weapon up against his shoulder, aiming into the darkness, when he heard a soft voice—a hiss, “Ross. Put your damn gun down, Ross. It’s me.”

Ryan blinked, lowering the weapon quickly. He knew that voice. He shook his head, scowling as he put the rifle back down at his side, turning to get his lantern back on. 

“Brendon,” he warned quietly. “You better be glad it was me.”

His eyes registered the figure of Brendon Urie, slowly crouching down to get beside him. Ryan could make out the curve of a smile on Brendon’s face in the dark. 

“Otherwise,” Ryan warned. “You’d be dead.”

Brendon rolled his eyes as he shifted down in the dirt next to Ryan, almost shoulder to shoulder, knees pulling up to his chest. He couldn’t seem to wipe that stupid smile off his face. 

“Who do you think you are?” Ryan asked, playful but there was a hint of sincerity to his words. “Disappearing in the middle of the night?”

He wouldn’t lie, he’d been fairly stressed when he woke up to take watch only to find that Brendon Urie had vanished from his poncho beside Ryan. Technically, Ryan’s watch had long since been over by the time Brendon returned and he should have woken up Mike Naran to take over. But he had wanted to be the one awake when Brendon came back. 

And, honestly, he couldn’t seem to sleep without knowing where Brendon had gone off to. 

“I uh—” Brendon shrugged, concealed laughter in his voice. “I had to take a piss.”

“Well Brendon Urie, you successfully take the record for longest piss of any man I’ve ever known,” Ryan said back, sitting his lantern in his lap and finally getting the light to come back. He turned then, and saw Brendon clearly in the glow of the lantern. 

Could see the sly grin, the sloppily buttoned shirt, unkempt hair, and, of course, he could make out the bruises up the side of Brendon’s neck and disappearing beneath his shirt collar. He couldn't miss those, even if he tried. 

And he tried.

Ryan took a second of surprise, leaning back to take into account the whole of Brendon’s appearance. God, he could practically _smell_ it on him. 

“A piss, huh?” Ryan asked skeptically. 

Brendon couldn’t stop smiling that cocky sneer. “Yeah.”

“You fall or something on your way back?” Ryan asked him, deadpan. 

Brendon tilted his head, pretending he didn’t understand, and Ryan grumbled, turning back to his lantern. 

“Pull your collar up, Bren,” Ryan commanded, rolling his eyes as he fiddled with the light. “You look like you been boxing with someone who only aims for the neck.”

Brendon straightened, obviously knowing what Ryan was talking about and scrambled to fix his collar up around the purple splotches. 

“Damn,” Brendon said, feeling up his neck with hesitant fingers. Perhaps he could wipe them off with his hand. “I didn’t even—I said not to leave marks.”

“Well, seems like she didn’t listen,” Ryan muttered. 

“Ha, yeah.” Brendon unbuttoned his shirt and closed it back up, attempting any sort of neatness again. Pressed his hair flat against his scalp and ran his fingers through it over and over. 

“So,” Ryan said conversationally, not even looking up at Brendon. He thumbed through Mike Naran’s bible, not bothering to read a single word. For some reason, his eyes wouldn’t focus. “She have a name?”

“Oh uh, well she—you know I don’t think I remember it.”

Ryan scoffed. Of course. “You didn’t get her name?”

“I’m sure I did I just—I don’t remember it is all. Started with a ‘sh’ sound. Shana or something, I don’t know.”

Ryan closed his bible with a ‘thwak’ and turned to stare at Brendon with exasperation written on his features, eyebrows raised. Why was he so angry? He felt irrationally angry. Ryan repeated, in a voice thickened by skepticism, “Her name was _Shana_?”

“Or something!” Brendon tried, and he sounded panicked. “I don’t remember, I said. It’s late and I’m tired—”

“Should have stayed here to sleep then, huh?” Ryan snapped. “Not go off with some girl you don’t remember the name of.”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me,” Brendon said back with the same amount of argument present. 

“You can’t just leave in the middle of the night Brendon, you’d think you’d know that by now.”

“I didn’t just leave,” Brendon protested. 

“Yes, you did!” Ryan whisper shouted back, so as to not wake the other men sleeping some twenty feet away. 

It might be odd actually, now that Ryan was thinking about it, for them to wake up and look over to find Brendon and Ryan almost shoulder to shoulder, face to face, one of them decorated in hickeys and the other incredibly angry. 

Conclusions might be jumped to. 

“I told someone I was going,” Brendon said with his own anger lacing his words.

Instinctually, Ryan shifted back away from Brendon, setting the bible and lamp at his side away from his lap. “You did not!”

“I did! I told Pawlovich I was going and he said I could.” Brendon threw his hands up. “Hell, he encouraged a little whoopee.”

Brendon was blinking at Ryan and his face was blackened by night when Ryan had taken the lantern away. He was but a shadow in front of Ryan. Not even there at all, really. Ryan’s stomach did a strange flip. Brendon planned running away to go see some girl in Nancy. Told Dan and Dan said he could. Ryan was going to give Dan hell for that. 

He was going to give Dan hell. 

“Oh right.” Ryan shifted, rubbing his index finger and thumb together. “Right. I—He didn’t tell me.”

“Seems his problem more than mine,” Brendon hissed back. “I did what I was supposed to.”

“You did. Absolutely you did.”

“So you’re not allowed to be upset,” Brendon said like it was factual. And he was probably right. Ryan was not allowed to be upset. He needed to stop being upset. “I followed procedure.”

Ryan could be upset about that remark though. He scowled, whispering between his teeth, “Hooking up with French girls in the middle of the night is in _no way_ procedure.”

“You’ve done it.”

Oh, good reply there, Brendon. Way to get Ryan in quite the bind. Ryan had forgotten about that little lie. When he’d disappeared in the middle of the night a few months prior. All the guys had asked where he was and he really wasn’t so keen to tell them he’d been off in the woods, trying to fashion another letter to Elizebeth Berg (even though Brendon—and other men—had warned him against it). 

Wasn’t the best story to tell. 

No one likes a pitiful story. 

And, he was also the only man who hadn’t had some sort of conquest in the war. All the men had sex at least once with some foreign girl. Ryan was the square. And for once—just once—he wanted to be a goddamn circle. 

So he’d lied. Said he met a girl down in town who invited him back for the night. What had he said her name was? Jac? Jac, right. He’d made up a girl named Jac. It was a nice name, really. He could write a letter to a girl named Jac. 

If she were real; which she wasn’t. 

“And _you_ didn’t tell anyone,” Brendon reminded. 

Ryan shook his head. “Yes. You’re exactly right. And I didn’t want you to make the same mistake, s’all. Luitenant gave me hell for it, you remember.”

“I do, I do.” Brendon nodded and he said it seriously but a small smile played on his lips. “Right hell.”

“My back still hurts by the way.” For effect, Ryan rubbed the base of his spine and looking fakely pained. 

“It was very nice of you to carry his bag though,” Brendon supplied with faux sweetness. 

“I should have dropped it in the mud,” Ryan bit back.

Brendon laughed a little too loudly for the quiet night and—realizing that—slapped a hand over his own mouth. The shocked, childish expression on Brendon’s face was too perfect and Ryan let out a hitched laugh at the guise, covering his own mouth. 

They giggled like little boys keeping a secret from their mother. 

Childish, too much so. They shouldn’t have laughed like that in the night. They were sitting too close and Brendon had too many bruises on his neck and Ryan’s cheeks were too hot and his heart was beating too fast as he saw Brendon smile too wide at him. 

This was all too much. 

As Ryan walked further into Brendon Urie’s bedroom, he wondered if that girl’s name really had been Shana. Most certainly not. That wasn’t a real name. Just like Jac wasn’t. But those marks on Brendon’s neck were very real. Can’t give marks like that to yourself. 

He remembered all the men had been astounded. Dan Pawlovich had given Brendon a hearty clap on the back. Like he was proud of Brendon for skipping watch to go see some pretty girl. Encouraging Brendon to break the rules. Ryan tried not to be upset. He had tried very, very hard. 

Still hadn’t worked though. 

The anger was a dull throb in his chest as he went over to Brendon’s bed, tried to fix the covers. Was this wrong? Fixing another man’s bed? An invasion of privacy, surely. But the door had been open. So Ryan wasn’t exactly snooping around. He was just fixing things that obviously needed to be fixed. 

He stood there, admiring the freshly made bed. Those covers looked soft. He bet Brendon loved his bed. He seemed the kind who would. He had always complained of how it felt to sleep on the ground. He’d loved the nights in training when they had slept on real beds. ‘Sleeping on the ground was for animals,’ he’d said. And he wasn’t wrong. 

But what made humans any more worthy of comfort?

Ryan wondered if Brendon had shared a bed with Shana, or whatever her real name was. He wondered if Brendon liked to sleep with another person. Not sex. Not that. But how he slept. If he liked another person’s warmth. 

Ryan had always liked the warmth that Z provided. They’d only done that twice. Slept together. It had been nice though. He’d loved her then. 

Not that he didn’t love her anymore. He… well, he didn’t really know how he felt now.

What was the definition of love again? 

Three years was a long time not to love someone anymore. That was all the time you needed to stop loving. Three years was long enough. 

At first, Z had been all he thought about. For the first set of months. Ten or so maybe. And then Brendon Urie had sung a half written letter to him. Then Brendon Urie had said he was Mormon raised. He’d stolen dead men’s rings and gotten kissed by girls in Nancy named Shana. Sang Frank Sinatra to Ryan before they left for home. He’d sat across from Ryan with an utterly depressing look on his face on a train back to America. 

And there was a strange pit in Ryan’s stomach all of a sudden. Because Z didn’t matter at all when Brendon did those things. Z didn’t matter at all when there was Brendon.

He heard the door clatter shut in the living room. Ryan raised his head in surprise, straightening to attention. He stood still in the dim light of Brendon’s bedroom in front of a bed he wasn’t supposed to fix but he had. 

“Ryan?” The voice coming from the living room was distant. There was a pause and he heard Brendon’s dress shoes click across the wood. There was a swift turn and a few more clicks. Brendon was searching. 

“Ryan,” Brendon repeated, harder. 

Ryan blinked a few times, opened his mouth slightly. Closed it and swallowed thickly. He didn’t say anything, just walked to the door and stuck his head out to find Brendon jogging into the bathroom. He listened to Brendon call his name and a small smile came over him. 

“Ryan?”

“Present.”

Brendon turned around swiftly, back from the bathroom and stopped when he saw Ryan standing in his bedroom’s door frame. Ryan held onto the frame with one hand, the other hanging limp at his side. 

He still looked like a disaster. Wrinkled grey undershirt and underwear. He smiled, trying to distract from his physical manifestation of catastrophe. 

“Hi, sorry.”

“No it’s—” Brendon shook his head. “It’s alright. I just—I was worried you left.”

Ryan felt a strange chill through his body. Brendon worrying about him leaving. That meant he wanted him to stay. Or least say goodbye before he fled. And that frankly felt like more than enough. 

“I didn’t,” Ryan said.

Brendon laughed a small sound. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Brendon traced Ryan over with his eyes, taking into account his new state of dress. He didn’t look good, Ryan knew that. A broken bird trapped in Brendon’s bedroom. Humiliating.

“I thought you didn’t wear undershirts.”

“I do to sleep,” Ryan answered.

Brendon nodded. He thought for a second before looking from Ryan’s bare feet up to his face. There were about fifteen feet that divided them. That was far too much. Ryan couldn’t read Brendon’s eyes from that far. 

“So…” Ryan licked at his lips. Brendon watched him do it and he felt extremely subconscious. As if he should have licked his lips in a different way. As if there was a better way to lick his own lips. “Who was at the door?”

Brendon looked up at Ryan’s eyes with a start. “Oh. Him? Uh… that’s my—my friend Dallon. Dallon Weekes.”

Ryan thought about it for a moment. He knew that name. Brendon had mentioned that name before. A few times. Down by the creek and— “Is he the one that taught you to play?”

Brendon cocked his head. He’d drawn his hands up to his face and was wiping at his freshly shaven mouth. He’d kept clean, really. Ryan figured he’d look good but not that good. All freshly shaved, combed hair, and suit pants. 

“Piano,” Ryan added. “Taught you to play the piano. Was he the one?”

Brendon’s face flooded with recognition. “Oh. Yeah. He is.”

“And your uh—your creek buddy. You went down to the creek with him.” Ryan smiled as he said it and he didn’t exactly know why. Perhaps just that he remembered so easily. The way Brendon looked by the creek edge. “Made wishes with that guy.”

“Right, yeah.” Brendon wasn’t smiling. “Yeah.”

Ryan wondered why he wasn’t. He also noticed that Brendon couldn’t seem to stop playing with his mouth, rubbing the backs of his knuckles across his lips. Maybe he’d cut his lip. 

“Wish I’d said hi,” Ryan said.

Brendon laughed. “No, you don’t.”

“I don’t?”

“Dallon’s in a—Well, he was in a bad mood this morning. I don’t know what’s eating him.” It sounded like he did.

“Trouble with a dame, maybe?” Ryan asked. 

He’d only caught a glimpse of the man at Brendon’s door—seeing as how Brendon had been doing his best to block it like he was ashamed of Ryan or something—but he’d looked like a stand-up sort of guy. All tucked in checkered shirt and brushed hair. Bright blue eyes and an award-winning smile. 

Brendon laughed. “Yeah, you could say that. Definitely, you could say that.” 

Ryan didn’t really know what about the question had been funny but he smiled anyway at the sound of Brendon’s voice and nodded. Ryan didn’t know what else was expected of him to say so he shrugged his shoulders a little, shifting on the balls of his bare feet, and tucked his hands beneath his arms. “Seems… nice?” 

“He is,” Brendon said and his voice was small and for some reason, he looked terribly lost. “He really is.” 

There was a silence and Ryan rubbed one of his arms. He waited for Brendon to say something, anything. 

Nothing came. 

“Do I—” Ryan didn’t mean to sound so desperate. “Do I need to go?” 

Brendon shook his head vigorously. “No. No, Ryan. You do not need to go.”

“I don’t know where to…” Ryan trailed off. 

“You can sleep in my bed if you want. I’ll take the couch,” Brendon said. 

“Are you sure because I can—”

“I’m sure. You take the bed; you need the rest. Looks like you haven’t slept in days.” And frankly, Ryan hadn’t. “We’ll figure it out later. It’s alright, Ryan. Really it is. We’ll figure it out.”

 _We will._

Ryan nodded. He hoped they could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	14. Pocket-Worthy Misunderstandings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A break? Sorry, I don't know her.

It wasn’t so much that Dallon kissed him. It was more the way he did it. The way that he held Brendon’s face tight with both hands, kept him in place. The way that Dallon’s blue eyes sought recognition in Brendon’s. It was the way those blue eyes sharpened, angry. It was the way Dallon’s voice raised when he said the word ‘me’. 

_Did you even think about_ me _?_

It had been the way Dallon’s lips were smooth but when they hit Brendon’s mouth they were rough. The way that Brendon wasn’t even given an option to kiss back. He wasn’t given a choice. The way Dallon didn’t offer him one.

It was the _way_ Dallon kissed him; not that he did it. 

Still, though, the shock churned through Brendon’s stomach and up into his body. Down into every nerve ending, curling through every vain, and bubbling in his blood. Dallon’s kiss resonated in him. Brendon’s lips tingled, almost as if they would be bruised later. Dallon’s tooth had clicked with Brendon’s own and it ached.

His mouth _hurt._

He couldn’t seem to stop touching his lips as he walked back up his apartment, feeling over the flesh carefully. As if maybe the skin had been changed by the kiss. His lips were the same as they had always been. But it was off, this feeling. There was something wrong with it. 

Something tainted. 

He walked slowly up to his home, dragging his feet up the cement steps. He took his time. He needed it. Brendon stared at the door for a few minutes, just in astounded silence before tugging it open. 

Dallon Weekes kissed him. _Kissed_ him. Kissed _him._

And Ryan Ross had appeared from Vegas. And Brendon had given him a bath. Ryan Ross was supposed to be in his house. What was he supposed to do with this? With Ryan? God, what was he meant to do?

“Ryan?” he called into the room. He expected a murmur back; expected to find Ryan sitting on the couch or drying himself off in the bathroom. He expected Ryan. 

But Ryan wasn’t there. Just gone. Poof. 

The fear was quick, but it was there. Not knowing where Ryan had gone off to. There was no way that Ryan Ross came to him, fled all the way from Vegas just because of a drunk note on a napkin, and then ran away not five hours later. There was no way. 

But there was no Ryan Ross in his house. He was gone. 

“Ryan.”

Brendon went to the bathroom, worry settling in. His voice was probably a little too scared. He shouldn’t sound so worried. He shouldn’t _be_ so worried. But he was. God, he was. 

“Ryan?”

“Present,” a tiny voice called.

Relief swam through Brendon as he turned, stepping out of the bathroom to see Ryan still in his home. He let out a small sigh at the sight of a freshly cleaned Ryan Ross exiting Brendon’s bedroom in his night clothes. Like he was meant to be there or something. 

Ryan had towel dried hair that stuck up strangely on his head in places and the collar of his grey shirt was dampened by the water. He was in a different pair of underwear and Brendon wondered why Ryan thought it was alright to look like that. 

All lost and lonely. Begging to be loved. 

How dare he.

“Hi, sorry,” Ryan Ross said to him. 

Why did this boy keep apologizing? He didn’t need to. He didn’t have a thing in the world to be sorry for. But the world had a lot to apologize to him for. The world had a lot. What a prick God was. What a prick. 

“No it’s—” Brendon shook his head. “It’s alright. I just—I was worried you left.”

He had been. He had been very, very worried that Ryan had left. What if he had? What if he had just swooped by, gotten a bath from Brendon and then hightailed it back to Vegas. What if he’d just gone? Brendon didn’t know what he would have done.

Would he have followed him? Chased after him to Vegas? 

Would Dallon have kissed him if Ryan wasn’t there?

What a disaster this was. What a goddamn disaster. 

Ryan straightened a little, shifting on his feet. He looked uncomfortable. 

“I didn’t,” Ryan said and his voice was so small. Brendon didn’t remember him sounding so small when he spoke. With the blood wiped away, the purple and blossoming yellow on Ryan’s eye was more obvious. If Brendon ever met Ryan’s father, he was going to give him hell. 

He was going to give George Ross hell. 

Brendon laughed to himself. Ryan really didn’t know what he looked like, did he? All small and gentle and beaten down by the world. Ryan didn’t know at all. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Brendon traced Ryan over with his eyes, taking into account his new state of dress. Ryan looked good. Small, feeble. But good. The shirt hung off him and his briefs were down to his mid thighs. His skin was clean and he had fresh bandages wrapped around his hands. Brendon felt slightly guilty that he’d taken so long climbing back up the stairs. That he wasn’t there to help Ryan with the peroxide. But it seemed as though he had managed. But Brendon should have been there to help.

Brendon was a bad person. He was a worse friend. 

“I thought you didn’t wear undershirts.” Brendon was glad he did. It would have been far too awkward if Ryan kept walking around his house in nothing but his briefs. Brendon didn’t think he could handle that. 

“I do to sleep,” Ryan answered.

Ryan Ross was going to sleep in his house. That hadn’t occurred to Brendon yet. 

Brendon nodded. He thought for a second before looking from Ryan’s bare feet up to his face. There were about fifteen feet that divided them. Brendon was glad it was that far. It would be too close otherwise. A mile was too close for those two. 

Ryan Ross was too much of a threat. Dallon Weekes and Ryan Ross. Who did they think they were? Looking so innocent. He’d collected Dallon Weekes. He wasn’t about to collect Ryan Ross too. He wasn’t going to. 

But with shatter-me whiskey eyes like that, how could Brendon not?

“So…” Ryan licked at his lips and Brendon watched him do it. Watched Ryan’s tongue flick out to wet his lips. He just didn’t know. Ryan Ross had _no idea_ how he looked. Ryan asked, “Who was at the door?”

Brendon looked up at Ryan’s eyes with a start. How was he supposed to answer that? Who was Dallon Weekes? His friend. But friends didn’t kiss like that. “Oh. Him? Uh… that’s my—my friend Dallon. Dallon Weekes.”

Ryan asked, unexpectedly, “Is he the one that taught you to play?”

Brendon tilted his head in confusion. Play? Play what?

“Piano,” Ryan added. “Taught you to play the piano. Was he the one?”

Brendon’s face flooded with recognition. How did Ryan remember that? Brendon was impressed he had. He listened to what Brendon said. He’d listened. “Oh. Yeah. He is.”

“And your uh—your creek buddy. You went down to the creek with him.” Ryan smiled as he said it and Brendon almost smiled back. How youthful Ryan looked. How innocent and pocket-worthy that boy was. “Made wishes with that guy.”

“Right, yeah.” Brendon didn’t want to smile anymore. Wishes. Made wishes with Dallon Weekes. He had. “Yeah.”

Brendon rubbed his knuckles over his lips. How did he get them to stop hurting? He ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip and his cheek. There was a tiny splice across the flesh. When Dallon kissed him, his tooth must have pierced his lip. 

Wow. 

Dallon really went for it.

“Wish I’d said hi,” Ryan said.

Brendon laughed and it sounded wrong to his own ears. Sounded terrible and flat. “No, you don’t.”

“I don’t?” Ryan looked sad. 

“Dallon’s in a—” Brendon didn’t know exactly what he should say. That Ryan wanted to see Dallon, wanted to talk to him. How would that go over? Ryan Ross and Dallon Weekes. Brendon didn’t have the faintest clue. “Well, he was in a bad mood this morning. I don’t know what’s eating him.”

But he did; he knew. He knew exactly. _Did you even think about me?_ And the answer was; Brendon hadn’t.

“Trouble with a dame, maybe?” Ryan asked and Brendon had to laugh. Ryan had no idea. So Brendon was the dame, wasn’t he? Everyone thought so. Dallon, and Jon, and Ryan too. Brendon was the dame. He always had been.

“Yeah, you could say that. Definitely, you could say that.”

Ryan placed on an uncomfortable smile, a sweet smile, and he shrugged his shoulders, shifting on the balls of his bare feet, and tucked his hands beneath his arms. He was cute. Brendon saw that. Ryan was cute. “Seems… nice?”

“He is,” Brendon said quietly. Dallon was. Dallon was a great guy. A nice guy. A heartbreaker sort of guy that Brendon would be stupid to fall in love with. Because he knew that if he did he’d be done for. “He really is.”

There was a silence and Ryan rubbed one of his arms. Brendon waited for him to speak. 

“Do I—” Ryan sounded as small as he looked. So, so small. “Do I need to go?”

Brendon shook his head vigorously. Ryan needed to stop thinking he could leave. Brendon was not about to let him leave. He wasn’t allowed. “No. No, Ryan. You do not need to go.”

“I don’t know where to…” Ryan trailed off.

“You can sleep in my bed if you want.” Brendon paused for a split second in his mind, realizing how that proposal sounded. What was he doing? Offering Ryan a hand-given bath and now his bed. He said quickly, so as to clarify, “I’ll take the couch.”

“Are you sure because I can—” Ryan tried. He didn’t seem to have noticed the pause.

“I’m sure,” Brendon reiterated. And he was sure. He was sure that he wanted Ryan in his bed. “You take the bed; you need the rest. Looks like you haven’t slept in days. We’ll figure it out later. It’s alright, Ryan. Really it is. We’ll figure it out.”

Ryan nodded carefully. He didn’t look so much like he agreed but Brendon wasn’t about to let him protest again. It was six in the morning. Six. And Ryan looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. 

“You should go and sleep,” Brendon said, gesturing back to the bed. 

Ryan glanced behind him and frowned slightly. “Well, it’s a little early. It’s day.”

“That’s no excuse,” Brendon said back. “You need to sleep.”

“But I—”

“No buts about it.” Brendon looked Ryan in the eyes. “ _Sleep._ ”

“Won’t that be—I don’t want to sleep if you have things to do. I can help you with—”

Brendon had to smile. “What do you think I have to do exactly, Ryan?” 

Ryan paused, obviously unsure of what he should say back. He didn’t actually know what Brendon did. Hell, Brendon barely knew what it was that he did. Ryan asked, “Work?”

“I work at night,” Brendon answered. “Days are free.”

Ryan’s expression changed obviously. “You work?”

“At night.”

“What do you do?” Ryan asked and he looked genuinely interested in what Brendon did. Like he cared about what Brendon did with his life. What was it these days with people caring about him? Dallon Weekes and Ryan Ross both. It was too new. 

“I sing.”

“You sing?” Ryan asked in alarm. 

“Like Sinatra. Like you said I should.”

Ryan stared at him and a wide smile came over his face. “I did say that didn’t I?”

“You did.” Brendon nodded. 

“And you’re doing it? You’re singing like Sinatra?” He sounded so pleased. So genuinely excited by the prospect. Brendon smiled a little to himself at just how giddy Ryan looked. How proud. 

His heart was warm in his chest. Firey hot. 

“I am. At this bar,” Brendon said and then realized that Ryan might ask him what bar and he didn’t want to lie. He did not want to lie to Ryan Ross. He’d only ever done that once. Only once when they were in Nancy and he’d snuck off in the night. 

Dan said he could. So he had. 

Besides, there were very few chances he got to sleep with semi-attractive men in France by the name of Shane. And so he had lied to Ryan. Said Shane was a girl, first of all. Second, he’d said her name was Shana. He was a liar. He really was. And he didn’t like himself for it. Not lying necessarily. He had to lie. All the time. That’s how it was being a fag. Lying came with love. That’s how it always was. 

It wasn’t lying. It was lying to Ryan. 

And it wasn’t that Dallon kissed him. It was how he did it. 

“And you?” Brendon asked. “Do you work?”

Ryan’s smile fell quickly, wiped off his face. Brendon hadn’t meant to do that. He hadn’t meant to hurt him. There wasn’t anything for Ryan to say. He just shook his head and Brendon swallowed. He regretted asking. He shouldn’t have asked. 

Ryan said gently, voice meek, “I should sleep. I haven’t slept. I want to sleep.”

Brendon stared at him sadly. God, he shouldn’t have asked. “You can. Room’s right there.”

Ryan nodded feebly; didn’t say anything else. Brendon wasn’t worth his words. He just turned slowly, running his hand across the door frame and walked himself into Brendon’s bedroom. 

Brendon watched him walk inside. Like it was his own bedroom. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. 

Brendon listened to the shifting of covers, the squeak as his bed dipped with Ryan’s weight. He wondered what Ryan looked like, bundled up in covers. He hadn’t ever seen Ryan in a proper bed. Just at training on flat cots or on his poncho in the dirt. He’d never seen Ryan comfortable, had he?

That wasn’t supposed to make him as depressed as it did. 

Brendon walked himself over to his couch and sat down slowly. Hung his arm over the back. He sat there for a second before sighing. Kicked off his dress shoes and stripped his pants off so he was in his underwear. He wasn’t about to take a nap in his suit pants. He wished he hadn’t taken the blanket off the couch after Dallon had stayed over. 

He reclined back on the sofa, nothing but his tank top and boxers, and folded his hands over his stomach. Stared at his ceiling. He wasn’t tired in the slightest.

What was he supposed to do with this? About Dallon. What was he supposed to do about Dallon?

Sure he liked him. He’d always liked Dallon. It was Dallon, how could he not? Dallon was his best friend. But that was it exactly. His best friend. And he didn’t want to mess that up. He couldn’t risk losing Dallon. He couldn’t do it. 

But if he declined Dallon’s offer—and it was an offer; a kiss like that was an invitation. Love or die—he’d lose him then too. So what? Go to Dallon and say that it was nice and he liked Dallon but—But what? 

He did like Dallon. He _really_ liked Dallon. 

So what was stopping him? Before he would have jumped at the opportunity. Well, was that true? Before he wasn’t so much into relationships. Homo relations never worked out. It always ended poorly. One or both in jail. One or both sick. One or both getting married to the opposite sex to keep up appearances. 

He’d always thought Dallon was that kind. The cautious sort. Always thought that Dallon would live in the same house his entire life until he met a girl. Then he’d marry the girl. Marry a girl like Breezy, his neighbor. Turn the lights off to be intimate. Have some stupid kids that he didn’t like because they reminded him that he didn’t actually love her. She’d argue with him because he was distant and he’d yell at her for not cleaning the dishes and then he’d drink a beer and his kids would cry. Then he’d sleep on the couch in a house he paid for but didn’t decorate and he wouldn’t dream. Then maybe he’d go jump off a bridge or something. 

That’s what all fags did. Lie until the end and then jump off a bridge. Or go down fighting. Love was worth it, wasn’t it? Brendon hadn’t given it much thought. Love. 

He’d never loved someone. Never had a boy share his home. Share his bed, sure. Too many times. But never his heart. Tragic, really. So lamely tragic. 

Dallon was the love-you kind. He always had been. And now he wanted to love Brendon. And Brendon was willing to love. He’d seen death first hand. He’d been the cause of death. His very own reaper. 

Death changed your view of love. 

He was willing. And Dallon was too. 

So what was the problem? What exactly was stopping him? Why wouldn’t he fall in love with Dallon? He could. He could if he wanted to. Did he want to? He didn’t really know. 

He loved Dallon. Loved him, loved him. 

So what was stopping him?

There was a dull snore from his own bedroom. He didn’t move his eyes from the ceiling. Ryan Ross was sleeping in his room, in his bed, in a t-shirt and some briefs. Ryan Ross was clean and his hair was damp from the bath Brendon had hand-given him and he was snoring. Ryan Ross was snoring, clean in his bed. 

Ryan wasn’t the reason. He wasn’t. 

Brendon listened to the small breathy snores that Ryan made in his sleep. It sounded almost like whimpers and Bendon frowned, sitting up quickly when one sounded especially loud. He sat up on his couch for a second, craning his neck and listening intently for any other sign of distress. 

Another whimper and Brendon was up off his couch and speed-walking to the door of his bedroom. He skidded towards it on his socks and looked inside with big eyes, half expecting to see Ryan having a full-blown nightmare. A meltdown where he was kicking and screaming and fighting off hands that weren’t really holding him.

That wasn’t what Brendon found, however. Just Ryan Ross, curled up in Brendon’s bed, the covers pulled up to his chin, eyes squeezed tight. 

Brendon looked on quietly from the doorway. Listened to Ryan make another subtle sound. He wondered if Ryan always slept like this. If he had nightmares every night. 

A lot of guys did. Brendon knew that. Sometimes certain guys would stay up all night, just because they couldn’t stand what they saw when they closed their eyes. Brendon remembered a few men like that. 

One, in particular, Mike Naran. 

Brendon had woken up a night in December, the French air cold. He hadn’t meant to wake up, he just had. A subconscious force lulling him from sleep to see Mike Naran sitting up, staring blankly across the dark landscape. Mike was maybe a year younger than Brendon but in the shade of the night he looked centuries older. 

Brendon had reached up and rubbed at one of his eyes with a fist. It was probably around three or so. Four maybe, Brendon didn’t know for sure. 

“Naran?” he had questioned groggily. 

Mike glanced over, obviously surprised, not expecting someone to be awake. “Oh. Urie. Hey.”

Brendon blinked a few times, tried to clear his thoughts and the black spots from his vision. He had a crick in his neck like he’d slept on it wrong. “What are you—I thought you had first watch.”

“I did.” 

Brendon yawned and started to set himself up with an arm. “What? Did Pawlovich ask you to cover again? I swear you can’t let him do that anymore. You need to sleep too. He ain’t special enough to skip watch every night.” 

Mike shrugged. “I skipped him; it’s alright.”

“Oh.” Brendon frowned. “Well, what about Ry—Ross?” 

Ryan was a few feet away, laying on the dirt with a hand beneath his head. He had the other hand over his ear, fingers knotting in his hair. As if he’d fallen asleep trying to drown out the sound. Brendon sighed a little. Too many men fell asleep in that position. 

“He took watch for me the last couple weeks,” Mike said. “I owe him.”

Brendon raised his head, looking away from Ryan’s sleeping form to Mike in surprise. Taking watch for Mike? That was funny. Ryan took watch for Brendon too sometimes. When did that boy sleep? Brendon didn’t say anything though, just nodded, and pulled himself up entirely to sit. 

“There a reason you don’t wanna sleep, Naran?” Brendon asked skeptically to which Mike shrugged again and his eyes were unfocused. 

“I lost my bible,” he said.

Brendon flinched. He could hear Ryan’s shallow breaths nearby. Could see his fingers in his hair from the corner of his eyes. Brendon could see Ryan’s pack too. The place a stolen baby bible was hidden. 

Brendon swallowed down a lump in his throat and said, “Must have dropped it. No one’d blame you for dropping a pocket bible like that. Heavy fire last week. We were all dropping shit.”

“It’s been gone longer than last week,” Mike mumbled.

It had? Brendon asked, “How long?”

“Month or two now, I think.” Mike looked momentarily confused. “What month is it?”

“December, Mike,” Brendon said quietly. 

“Is Christmas coming up?” Mike asked. 

“Yeah, it is,” Brendon answered. “A few days now.” 

It was sad, the truth of it. Christmas was coming up and it would probably feel like any other day. Days were blurring together. How long had Brendon been out here? Two years now. Days didn’t matter. Time was relative anyway. What was any other day compared to Christmas?

“You gonna send your ma a present?” Mike asked. 

Brendon furrowed his brows. “I don’t—”

“I’d like to,” Mike said without an invitation to. “I wish I could anyhow. Maybe I’ll send her my tags or something.”

Brendon stared at Mike who was staring into the darkness. Like he saw something there. Something in the darkness that no one else could. Just to see, Brendon followed Mike’s gaze into the trees. Nothing. Jack shit. 

“You can’t send those to your ma, Mike,” Brendon said. He could see Mike in the darkness, playing his chain between his fingers. A quick enough tug and he could probably choke himself. “You need those.”

“Yeah yeah. If I die. You know why they’re called dog tags don’t you?”

Brendon didn’t say anything. 

“‘Cause we’re like dogs with collars. Just so they know who to call if we get lost. Know which family to call when our body drops. Do you think they even care when they do? Sign a condolence letter and go on. ‘Sorry, your son’s dead Mrs. Naran. Nothing we could do.’ And that’s it, I guess. Nothing they could do.”

Brendon stared straight forward into the darkness. There was a chill up his spine. 

“I was gonna send her my bible back,” Mike said. “I don’t need it anymore. And now it’s gone.”

Brendon didn’t say anything. 

“Can’t believe I lost it,” Mike said and he sounded as lost as his bible was. 

Brendon’s throat was thick. “I’m sorry you lost your bible, Mike. You can send something else to your ma for Christmas. We’ll get her a picture of the Eiffel tower or—I don’t know, something pretty here. Mom’s love that. And you can write ‘hey look Ma I made it’ or put a bible verse or something if it means so much. Don’t send her your tags. You need your tags.” 

Ryan Ross shifted in his sleep and grabbed a handful of his hair. He murmured some phrase that neither Mike nor Brendon knew. Dan Pawlovich and two others were nearby. They all snored loudly but none of them talked in their sleep like Ryan did. 

“Do you miss Christmas?” Mike asked. 

Brendon just stared on. “Miss it?”

“Yeah.” Mike sounded like a kid. “I miss Christmas.”

“Sorry, Mike.”

“How can you not?” Mike turned fully to face him, eyes big and imploring. “How can you not miss it?”

“I miss a lot of things, Mike,” Brendon said back. And he did. Well, he sort of did. 

He missed kissing boys and he missed laughing with Dallon Weekes and hanging out around at a university that he didn’t attend. He missed creeks and making wishes. He missed a good night’s sleep. Missed how his pillow felt beneath his head. The way conditioner in his hair felt. The way dress shoes fit him. The way pomade made his hair glossy. Missed the way the world smelled like when it wasn’t covered in blood. Missed how it felt not to know how to shoot a gun. How it felt before he killed a man. 

He missed a lot of things. 

“But not Christmas,” Mike hummed back. “You don’t miss Christmas.”

“Sure, Mike. I guess I don’t.”

“I do.”

“I know you do Mike.”

Mike gestured over to Dan and the others. “Do you think they do?”

“Probably. Yeah, I bet they do,” Brendon said, listening to them snore. 

“And him?” Mike’s finger was pointing at Ryan Ross, still curled up on the dirt, hands beneath his head and over his ears. 

Brendon watched Ryan’s eyes move beneath his eyelids. He never really saw that side to Ryan. Saw what he looked like in the dead of night. When the Sandman had its way with him. Hung him upside down over the looking glass. 

“Do you think he misses Christmas?” Mike asked.  
Brendon stared at Ryan Ross. “I bet he misses a lot of things.”

What did Ryan Ross miss? Brendon had never asked. What simple, every-day life things from Vegas did that boy dream about? Did he miss the way his bed felt? Miss hair gel or listening to the radio in his house? Miss going dancing or kissing girls the way Brendon missed boys. 

What did Ryan Ross miss?

As Brendon stared at Ryan, asleep in his bed, the look from that night wasn’t so different. Still a scared boy, hands tucked over his ears. Trying to block out the ghosts. His eyes still shifted beneath his eyelids. Like he was searching for something that couldn’t be found. He still looked just as young. Just as lost. 

But the difference was, he wasn’t in a torn green jacket. His hair didn’t hang in grimy strips across his forehead. He didn’t have dirt beneath his fingernails and he didn’t have a face coated in sweat and he didn’t smell like blood. He wasn’t sleeping on the dirt. 

Ryan was in a grey cotton shirt and his briefs. His hair was clean and draped across the pillow in fresh strands. His fingernails were cleaned and his face was smooth and the smell of blood had long since faded. And he was sleeping in Brendon’s bed. Brendon’s. 

Ryan Ross slept in that bed as if he belonged there. And for a split second, Brendon was sure he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished my outline! 35 chapters with a set ending in mind! I pray it will stay that way! Thanks so much for reading. "I click on these emails the fastest stg" made me laugh yesterday, so thanks for that too.  
> And as always, tobealive, you're too good to me.


	15. A Mediocre Christmas at Best

Ryan slept into the evening but didn't have a single dream to speak of. Or at least, none that he could remember anyway. Just a vague ringing in his ears as he sat up in a bed that wasn't his and a bead of cold sweat down the side of his temple. Dripping down his face like the blood had when he'd hit the floor at his dad's house.

He reached up to feel it, to wipe it away, and—accidentally tapping the cut on his hairline instead—pulled back with a small hiss. His body was sore and his eye was throbbing something awful. Terrible actually. 

He wondered how long it would take for him to look normal again. For him to look like he hadn't just come back from war. So much for not having battle scars. Wouldn't that be awkward. Someone ask him where he'd been for the past three years and he'd say 'war' but when they asked him what the scars were from, he'd have to look them in the eyes and say 'I can't aim but my dad can'. Pathetic, truly. 

Ryan pulled himself up to a sitting position and was greeted instantly by the outlandishly large mirror that Brendon had across the bed on the wall, flinching back in surprise at the sight of himself. Yellowish bruised eye and screwed-up hair. He needed to get it together. He couldn’t seem to stop looking like a mess. 

How did Brendon stand to look at him? He was a goddamn disaster. 

He fiddled to fix his hair, pulled his shirt down, and tugged himself out of the bed. He didn’t remember closing the bedroom door so Brendon must have shut it while he was asleep. 

He didn’t think that he had any nightmares. Or he hoped not at least. 

It hadn’t been a bad sleep. The best he’d had in a long time actually. It felt as though he hadn’t slept at all during the last week and really, he hadn’t. A few hours a night and that was it. That was what kept him alive. A few fleeting hours of nightmare filled blackness. That was his life. 

He fixed Brendon’s sheets, smoothed them out with his hands. Stood back to admire his handy-work. It looked like any other old bed. But it wasn’t. It was Brendon’s. And that thought was enough to make Ryan feel incredibly embarrassed again. He had no business being here. None at all. 

Why had Brendon let him stay? 

Ryan walked himself from the bedroom slowly, carefully shutting the door behind him as he went. If Brendon wanted the door closed, he'd oblige. 

All the lights were on; almost like someone lived there or something. Ryan thought vaguely to his own home in Las Vegas. Had he turned the lights on at all in his house while he’d been back? He didn’t think so. Just sat beneath the window, blocking the rays of sun from his wooden floor with his own cruel shadow. 

He peered around the small apartment that Brendon lived in, into the sitting room, and then into the kitchen. His mouth felt stale and he wondered if it would be rude to go ahead and brush his teeth without asking. Act like the house was his own and do what he pleased. 

He shouldn’t. Not in Brendon’s house. This house wasn’t his; he shouldn’t act like it was. This was a temporary thing, he had to remind himself of that. He was staying a week at most, just to see Brendon. That's why he was here. Just to see Brendon. Although it had occurred to him, that he didn’t exactly have any plans at all after that. Not a one. See Brendon. That had been the goal. See Brendon. And he'd done it. He'd seen him. So he’d won. He could leave now. 

He knew Brendon was alive and well. Very well. Very, very well what with his suit pants and black vest and dress shoes with friends who visited him early in the morning and turned on lights in his house so it looked like he lived there. 

Almost too well. Ryan envied him. 

“And he rises,” the sing-song voice came from nearby and Ryan turned to face the sound.

Brendon was entering the rest of the house from the bathroom, a cigarette balanced between his teeth, and doing up his belt. He smiled brightly at Ryan and, although there was something off about it, Ryan didn’t complain; he liked Brendon’s smile. He appeared nice, and certainly in a good mood if the smile was anything to go by. Brendon walked by Ryan into the kitchen, taking his cigarette away with one hand and blowing a cloud into the air of his house.

The window in the living room—the only window in the house that Ryan knew of—was open to let a breeze in and let the smoke out. 

“Thought I was going to have to start banging pots and pans to get you up,” Brendon joked, not facing Ryan anymore but the cabinets of his kitchen. He pulled two glasses down and went to fill them with water from the faucet. 

He didn’t even ask Ryan if he wanted a drink, just went ahead and made one for him. 

Ryan watched, slightly mortified by what Brendon was wearing in comparison to his own ensemble. Brendon had on clothes, proper clothes. High-waisted trousers and a seersucker shirt. Didn’t have on shoes yet but Ryan could see his two-toned oxfords next to the bar. Dressed to impress.

Ryan’s own briefs and undershirt weren’t nearly as flattering. 

The outfit was different than Brendon’s vest and button-down the night prior. But Ryan thought maybe he liked Brendon with this outfit more. It had been sort of odd, going straight from dirty green jackets and itchy uniforms to vests and suit pants. Trousers and comfortable shirts were much better though. Fluffy hair and rosy cheeks clouded in cigarette smoke. Much, much better. 

Ryan watched Brendon move around his home. One perfect unit. Smoking and fixing his belt and pouring glasses of water for himself and Ryan. A beautiful, coherent process. He couldn't say that Brendon looked disheveled, even though half his shirt was still untucked and his hair was parted wrong. More like comfortably disordered. Fresh, cleaned, and ready to live. Brendon Urie belonged in a house. Looked good in a home. 

Ryan probably didn’t fit as well.

“Well?” Brendon bobbed his head towards the bar. “You gonna sit?”

Ryan glanced at the seat and back up at Brendon curiously. He asked, picking at the bottom of his comfortable cotton shirt, “Shouldn’t I get dressed first?”

“If you want to, sure. But you don't need to. I don’t care,” Brendon said and there was a small pause as if he didn’t know quite what he wanted to say. He held his cigarette between two fingers; waved it around in explanation before pressing it back to his mouth. He mumbled from the corner of the stick, “I was gonna make some coffee.”

“Coffee?” Ryan repeated as he walked to seat himself at the bar. “Seems a little late for coffee. What time is it?”

“About six now, last time I checked. But it's always the right time for coffee,” Brendon said back. He took a heavy drag and blew smoke from the side of his mouth. Ryan watched the smoke enter his mouth and leave with a flourish. He remembered watching Brendon smoke in war. 

They always got packs with new rations and Brendon was one of the few guys that savored cigarettes. 

A lot of men smoked constantly, anything to keep their mind off the blood stains on their shoes. Not Brendon though; he saved his cigarettes for a later date. Most men ran out within the first month or so of having new cigarettes. Not Brendon. He kept them three months or sometimes more. 

Ryan didn’t smoke so much. He hadn’t smoked before he went off, so there wasn’t a desperation to when he arrived on the battlefield. Ryan Ross could live without a little smoke. 

Brendon Urie though? He needed a cigarette every now and then. He’d keep a pack tucked carefully in his jacket pocket and he wouldn’t touch them until he needed to. So that when something particularly… _unsettling_ occurred, Brendon could reach into his pocket with dead man ring-adorned fingers and pull out a cigarette. Ask Ryan for a light and Ryan would provide. 

Then, with shaking hands, Brendon would take the cigarette to his lips, hollow his cheeks, and take a drag. It didn’t stop the trembling of his fingers, but it stilted the tremors. 

Brendon had to smoke when bad things happened. Ryan knew he did and he didn’t blame Brendon for it. Some men needed a smoke every now and again. 

It was odd then, seeing Brendon smiling and smoking at the same time. He was used to Brendon savoring his smokes, keeping them carefully tucked away. But he supposed that was because Brendon didn’t always know when he could get a new pack. And now he did. Could just roll into town and pick one up whenever he wanted. 

Oh, how the other half lives. 

“Sorry I slept so late,” Ryan said and he watched the vapor curl up to the ceiling of Brendon’s house and then dissipate into nothingness. 

“You didn’t,” Brendon said, swatting some of the remaining cloud from his face. “It was good actually. Gave me enough time to get a nap in.”

Brendon passed Ryan over a glass of water and he accepted, taking a slow sip of it. Something to soothe his parched throat. The liquid did wonders and he let out a small sigh at the satisfaction of it. 

“So… a cup of coffee?” Brendon asked.

“What about it?” Ryan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, setting his glass back down on the table. 

“Do you want one?” Brendon tilted his head. 

“Oh,” Ryan voiced. “Yes, sure. Please.”

“ _Please_ ,” Brendon mocked in a high voice. “Little boy over here. Asking for another round. Cheers, sir. Drink your water like a man.”

Brendon clinked his water glass against Ryan’s. He was certainly chipper this morning. All smiles at Ryan and casual clothing. Ryan liked it. Casual, comfortable Brendon Urie. The war wasn’t allowed this Brendon. Ryan was glad that he was. 

The only thing he didn’t understand was the smoking. If Brendon was so happy, why did he have a cigarette? The Brendon he knew didn’t smoke when he was happy. Only when he needed to calm a pounding heart. 

Ryan clicked his glass back with Brendon’s and drank some more. It felt like it had been years since he’d had such a fresh glass of water. So cold and smooth down his throat. He knew that wasn’t true though. Maybe it was just Brendon’s company that sweetened the deal. 

“Do you smoke a lot now?” Ryan asked because it was bothering him and he wanted to know. 

“Smoke?” Brendon asked back and looked down at the cigarette between two fingers. As if he'd forgotten it was there. “Oh.”

“It’s just—” Ryan bobbed his head around, shrugging. “You didn’t so much when we were—”

“I did when I could,” Brendon said and it sounded like he didn’t want to discuss it. Ryan felt bad he’d brought it up. “There’s more time now s’all. Easier to smoke. Besides, it’s… it’s what everyone does. Everyone smokes.”

Ryan nodded. It was true; everyone smoked. People had always smoked. He didn’t know why Brendon’s habit stood out to him. He shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place. 

“You’re right.” Ryan nodded. “Everyone smokes.”

“You don’t.” Brendon smoked languidly while he talked. “You haven’t smoked.”

“Sure I have,” Ryan said. 

“When?” Brendon asked and there was a bit of a smile on his face. Ryan almost considered telling a lie, just to keep that smile on his face. He knew the truth would make Brendon stop smiling in an instant. But he’d asked. Brendon had asked and Ryan was obligated to answer. 

“You remember Christmas of ‘44?”

And—as Ryan suspected—Brendon’s face fell. 

December 25, 1944. Christmas. Two years into their stay in France. A little less than a full year before Ryan and Brendon sat together in an apartment and drank water and Brendon smoked in the kitchen. 

It had been a rainy day. Hard, icy rain that splattered across the ground like it had something to prove. 

Brendon had been sitting beneath an overhang from an older house that no one lived in. It was partially destroyed, the roof sloping at an odd angle and the windows smashed in. Ryan remembered walking from the tents to find him there.

Brendon was dripping wet; obviously been standing in the rain for a while before seeking shelter at the ugly house. He looked frail in the shade of a dilapidated house, skinny with the way his jacket and pants clung to him from water. Insignificant in war.

Ryan walked up carefully, the rain drenching him through. All the way to the core. Cold rain seeping into his hot blood and his pulsing heart, attempting to freeze him. It didn't work; the rain was stupid for trying.

“Hey,” Ryan called out and walked to get under the slouched roof. He had to bend his head to do such. 

There wasn’t a chair and Brendon was sitting on the ruined front porch, knees up to his chest and arms resting on top of them. Termites had eaten away at the wood and it was covered in mud. Brendon’s pants would be ruined with dirt. 

“Bren?”

Brendon’s dark eyes took a moment to focus on him. His pupils were large and round. Irises silent moons in an empty white sky. “Hey. Ryan. Hi.”

“It’s freezing out here,” Ryan said quietly, keeping his own eyes fixed on Brendon's. “You sure you don’t wanna join us? Tents are warm. Dan started singing too; can't get him to stop. I think they need someone who can actually carry a tune. C'mon, Bren. Even got blankets to keep warm. C’mon.”

Brendon shook his head and sniffed, wiping at his nose. He had a soggy, unlit cigarette balanced between his fingers. “No thanks. I’m alright.”

Ryan pursed his lips. “It’s warm in there, Bren. You’ll get frostbite or something if you stay out—”

“I said I’m alright.” 

Ryan shut his mouth instantly. Brendon’s voice had been angry, barely concealed, and Ryan knew when to quit. 

He eased himself to sit beside Brendon in silence, against the rotted wood of the house. He listened to Brendon’s shallow breaths mix with the sobbing rain. His eyes were red and irritated like he’d been rubbing at them. Not like he cried though. Men didn’t cry.

Ryan waited a few minutes to ask, gesturing to the cigarette with his head, “You want’a light?” 

Brendon glanced over and then down at his cigarette as if he’d forgotten it was there at all. He squeezed it between two fingers and then tossed it to the dirt. The water crushed it into the ground. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” Ryan muttered.

“Can’t light a wet cigarette,” Brendon mumbled to his side. 

Ryan nodded slowly before reaching into his jacket pocket. He’d brought the pack just in case. Becuase he knew how much Brendon liked to smoke when he was upset. He showed the pack of camels to Brendon, who’s eyes went slightly large. Shook it in offering and Brendon nodded.

“I thought you didn’t smoke,” Brendon said, watching as Ryan pulled two from the pack and placed them both in his mouth. 

“I don’t,” Ryan said, words muffled by the cigarettes between his lips. He tucked the rest of them away in his pocket. 

Ryan lit the two carefully, using a hand to shield them from the wind. Once he had done so, he took one lit cigarette from his mouth and handed it over to Brendon. Brendon didn’t complain about it having been in Ryan’s mouth; just accepted it with careful fingers. You got smokes where you could. 

“So how come you’re—?” Brendon’s eyes followed Ryan’s movements. Watched as Ryan held the cigarette with two fingers to his lips and sucked, opening his mouth to let out a thin stream of smoke.

“Dunno,” Ryan said and he didn’t cough as the ashy flavor filled his mouth. He tapped the end of the cigarette with his forefinger and burning specs floated to the ground. “Nothing better to do I guess.”

Brendon nodded slowly and looked at the cigarette in his hands for a minute before he too took a heavy drag. Heavier than he intended it seemed and, when he pushed the smoke back out of his mouth, he choked on it. Ryan didn’t move to help him, simply observed from the corner of his eyes as Brendon held a fist to his mouth and coughed. 

“How long’s it been? Since _you_ last smoked?” Ryan asked, watching as Brendon’s eyes started to water with the force of his coughing. 

“Few months.” Brendon patted at his chest with a fist, let his breathing calm for but a second before he went in for another puff. 

“That’s good,” Ryan said. 

Brendon looked over, frowning as he took his cigarette away and blew a ring of grey at Ryan’s face. “How so?”

Ryan moved out of the way so it didn’t hit him. “Nothing. Just that—you only smoke when you’re upset.”

He turned to give Brendon a knowing look and Brendon’s face turned to a scowl almost instantly. “I’m not upset.”

“Why not?” Ryan asked. “You’re allowed to be.”

Brendon sniffed and wiped at his nose, falling into silence so he could smoke.

“Mike was a good guy,” Ryan said gently. “I wouldn’t blame you for it.”

Brendon growled under his breath and a small spurt of grey blew between his pink lips. They were puckered around the cigarette just so and—even though he knew Brendon only smoked when he was sad—Ryan found himself thinking that Brendon looked good smoking a cigarette. 

Brendon said back, in a small bite, “Don’t talk about him like he’s dead.”

“He’s gone though,” Ryan said. “Might as well talk about him like he is. Isn’t coming back.”

Brendon smoked quietly. His voice was small when he spoke again, barely audible over the rain, “I can’t believe it.”

“It was a stupid thing to do,” Ryan agreed. His own tone was loud.

“In the foot,” Brendon said, still in awe, and he couldn’t stop shaking his head. “Shot himself in his own damn foot. Just to get away. What sort of coward do you have to be? Shoot yourself in the foot. How arrogant? That you think you’re allowed to leave and we’re not?”

“Couldn’t take it,” Ryan said and he blew out some smoke. Watched it get sliced in half by the rain pelting down. “Had to get out.”

“Why does _he_ get to?” Brendon asked. “Why did he think it was okay for _him_ to leave and no one else?”

Ryan shrugged. “Maybe he wanted to go home for Christmas.”

No one in their unit had done it until Mike. Shot themselves. 

Men had died. A lot of good men had. But none had pointed the gun on themselves but Mike. At least he had enough decency not to shoot himself in the head. The foot was smart. The wound would heal and no one would see the scar and he could tell people he’d been shot overseas. He could engineer whatever sort of story he wanted. He wouldn’t have to tell anyone the real reason he was shot. That he shot himself because all he wanted was to leave France. Get the hell out of the war. Just wanted to see his ma for Christmas. 

“Well, what if I wanted to go home for Christmas too, huh?” Brendon bit angrily. “Don’t see me going around and shooting _my_ self in the foot.”

Ryan nodded to himself. “Yeah.”

“And still, that’s a stupid excuse. Seeing your ma on Christmas,” Brendon went on, “He shot himself on Christmas Eve. _Eve._ They can’t get him home that quick. He’ll be in the hospital for a while. Guy won’t get home for another month and a half. We both know that.”

“So why do you think he did it then?” Ryan asked. “If it wasn’t for Christmas.”

Brendon let out a heavy sigh and remnants of smoke came with it. He shook his head and rubbed at his face with a hand, wiped over his puffy eyes and rain-drenched hair. “I don’t—I _wish_ I knew.”

“Some guys just need to get away,” Ryan said quietly. 

Brendon nodded and he held his cigarette with shaky fingers. Blew shaky rings of smoke past shaky, full lips. He wouldn’t be this way for long. It was only because it was Christmas. Christmas was a hard time for guys like Ryan and Brendon. Trapped away from home with no family to share the holiday with. 

Granted, Ryan thought that Christmas with Brendon was better than any Christmas he’d ever had with his father. So a decent Christmas at best. Ryan Ross was fit to have a mediocre Christmas at war. How beautiful.

Brendon licked at his lips and fiddled with his cigarette. He asked Ryan, in a small voice, “If you could go home for Christmas, would you?”

Ryan knew what his answer should be. A resounding yes. Who didn’t want to get out of war? But as Brendon Urie looked at him—red, ruined eyes, rain-drenched hair and shaky fingers on a cigarette—he couldn’t find himself wanting to leave. 

“I don’t know if I would,” Brendon said when Ryan didn’t answer quickly enough. “I mean Christmas is shit anyways. It always has been. What do you do? What is Christmas? Sit around at a table with your family or whatever and pretend that you like each other and pray to a man in the sky that doesn’t care about you and never will. Then you open presents, smile like you like them, and then never ever use them.”

Ryan smiled. “You’re sort of a downer, Brendon Urie.”

“I’m doing my best impression of you,” Brendon teased back sadly but there was a small tilt to his lips. Half of a smile. 

Ryan laughed because Brendon wanted him to. He didn’t know if he actually found it funny, but Brendon was looking at him with hopeful eyes so he had to. Ryan was obligated to laugh when Brendon looked at him like that. 

They both took drags from their cigarettes. Let out smoke in tandem. 

“Merry Christmas, Bren,” Ryan had said softly to his side. 

“Merry Christmas, Ryan,” Brendon had said back just as small. 

Brendon Urie, nearly a year later, September of 1945, did not appear as pleased. But his eyes weren’t red and he wasn’t wet with rain. He was smoking his cigarette casually, not like it was the only grounder to his world. He wasn’t wearing a soggy, dirty uniform. He was wearing nice, casual clothes. 

And Ryan liked him just the same as he had then, if not more.

“You ever wonder about Mike?” Ryan asked thoughtfully. 

“No,” Brendon said and he began to smoke at a faster pace. “I don’t actually.”

“I don’t either,” Ryan admitted. “Haven’t really thought about him since Christmas.”

“No reason to,” Brendon added. 

There was a pause. Ryan drank his water and Brendon smoked his cigarette. There was worry to Brendon’s eyes. Stress. Ryan wondered why. What had Brendon fidgeting and smoking again? 

“You still have his bible?” Brendon asked and Ryan was slightly caught off guard. 

“His bible?”

“Yeah. Mike’s baby bible. You still got it?”

Ryan blinked a few times. He hadn’t thought of that bible for a few months. Wow. 

He hadn’t read it since Mike shot himself in the foot, it seemed. Maybe a few times. Just when there was a lull to his daily routine. A chance to take it out. But he still had it, despite not reading it. In his pack probably, the one he hadn’t bothered to unpack. It was probably in one of the pockets.

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Pretty sure.”

Brendon appeared surprised by that response, raising his eyebrows and taking a pause from his smoke to analyze Ryan with his eyes. He asked, “You ever regret taking it?”

Ryan didn’t know the answer. “I guess not.”

“He knew you took it,” Brendon said and Ryan stared at him. “Well, not _you_ specifically but he knew it was gone. Told me one night. Said he lost it. And I never told him that I knew you took it.”

“Why not?” Ryan asked.

“I honestly don’t know.” Brendon rolled his cigarette between his thumb and his pointer finger. “Not a clue.”

“You still got your rings?” Ryan asked and gestured with his head to Brendon’s barren fingers. It was odd in a way to see Brendon without them. He’d worn them for so long. Three years until they were to board a train back to America. Only then did Brendon Urie rid himself of dead man rings. 

Brendon smiled a little at the mention. “Yeah. All fourteen of them. I think they’re in my pack.”

“That’s where Mike’s bible is.”

“Ever think about giving it back to him?” Brendon asked. 

“Ever think about giving those corpses their rings back?” Ryan returned and Brendon snorted softly. 

“Right. I guess we’re one and the same, Ryan Ross.”

“Hey,” Ryan argued in a small laugh. “I didn’t steal _fourteen_ bibles.”

“At least no one missed those rings,” Brendon said back.

Ryan didn’t bring up the wives of those men. The women who probably wanted to string those wedding rings on chains and wear them as necklaces. He knew some women would do that. If Z and he were married, would she have done that? If Z and he were married, and he’d died at war, would Brendon have stolen his ring as well? Worn it around, a promise of sorts, until he boarded a train to Utah? Ryan didn't know. Didn't know what he wanted the answer to be. 

They shared a gentle laugh. 

Ryan, deciding that he needed to keep Brendon talking, asked, “Is it alright if I stay here a while longer?”

“I already said it was,” Brendon replied like Ryan was stupid.

“I know that,” Ryan said. “But I have money. I could stay at a hotel or—”

“You’re staying here.” Brendon had a hard set to his eyes. “Don’t ask anymore. You’re staying here, Ryan Ross. That’s just how things are. You gave me a pack of smokes when Naran got shot. I give you a bed to sleep in when your dad hits you.”

Ryan couldn’t take his eyes off him. 

“A fair trade.”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah. Fair trade.”

Even if it really wasn’t. 

“Did you not work today?” Ryan asked, rubbing his finger on the countertop, scratching at it aimlessly. 

“I sing at night,” Brendon replied and he placed his elbows down on the bar, bending over to lean on the counter. Ryan and he were about a foot apart. Ryan could see every feature up close. Could count every strand of hair and memorize the colors in Brendon’s eyes. The bags beneath thos eyes, as if he had slept about as well as Ryan had. Which meant not at all. 

“When do you sleep?” Ryan asked, a direct result of staring at the dark circles beneath Brendon’s shiny gaze.

Brendon continued to smoke and the cloud enveloped Ryan when he blew it out. Ryan didn't swat it away. “Go sing from eight ‘till one or so. Maybe hang around a little longer. Sleep at home ‘till noon. It’s a good life.”

It didn’t sound like it was. 

“Do you like singing?” Ryan asked him. 

Brendon nodded and his voice was genuine, “More than anything else.”

“Told you that you should do it,” Ryan said. 

“I remember.”

“Sinatra only?” Ryan asked. 

“No. All sorts of stuff. Mills Brothers too," Brendon said. "I sang ‘Paper Doll’ last night.”

“‘Paper Doll’,” Ryan repeated and he remembered hearing that song on the radio. 

He’d written the lyrics of it in the margins of Mike Naran’s bible. He’d stolen the bible that day in fact, hadn’t he? Did he regret stealing that bible? Mike never seemed like he got proper use out of it. Then and again, Ryan never really understood what it was about either. He didn’t though. Didn’t regret taking the baby bible. He needed it more than Mike did. 

“'43 in Normandy,” Brendon said as if Ryan could forget it. 

“I remember.”

“You said you’d get a nasty papercut sleeping with a paper girl.” Brendon’s eyes hadn’t left Ryan’s face. Observing Ryan the same way Ryan was watching him. Memorizing. “It was a good joke.”

“You didn’t laugh.”

“I liked the song too much,” Brendon said.

“I remember.”

They blinked at one another for a moment. Brendon’s eyes shone in the light of his house and the smoke from his cigarette raised up as a sheen between Ryan and him. Ryan felt like he was in a bar. 

“I’d like to hear you sing,” Ryan proposed. And he would. It had been a while since he’d heard Brendon’s voice. Not since he sang Sinatra on a cliff overlooking Nancy and army tents. A few weeks then, since he’d heard Brendon’s singing. What if he’d forgotten what it sounded like? 

Brendon smiled. “Maybe another day. Gotta save my voice for tonight.”

“Can I come?” Ryan asked a little too quickly. A little too eager. 

Brendon’s grin faltered and the cigarette twitched between his lips with the movement. “Another day. But not tonight. You don’t—I don’t think you’re well enough tonight. Let those hands heal some. Fix the eye up a little. Then we can go, how about that? Then I’ll take you to The Ch—”

He fell out almost instantly and Ryan looked at him expectantly, if not slightly saddened by Brendon’s quick dismissal. 

“Walk of Shame is what the bar’s called,” Brendon tried again. “My buddy—Dallon, the guy at the door—”

“Wishes boy,” Ryan recited

“Yeah.” Brendon’s voice was hesitant. “He works there. It’s a pretty… _exclusive_ place though. I’d have to talk to him about getting you in.”

Ryan frowned. “You work at a fancy club?”

“No, it’s just that—” Brendon shook his head. “It’s just that it’s not—We don’t let many people in because—”

Ryan’s eyes widened slightly. “It’s a speakeasy?”

“Yes.” Brendon appeared instantly relieved that Ryan said it aloud, shoulders slacking and he let out a breath of smoke. “Yeah. A speakeasy. Exactly.”

“Pretty scandalous, Bren,” Ryan said, cocking an eyebrow and smirking slightly. “Can’t believe you.”

“Oh, because you’re such a man of the law.” Brendon rolled his eyes. 

“Excuse you, I served my country. Can’t get any more for the law than that.” Ryan grinned. 

“Right. Of course.” Brendon smiled back at him. “I forget you did that sometimes.”

“So you’ll talk to—Dallon, was it?” Ryan asked and Brendon grimaced when he spoke the name. “You’ll ask him to let me come and then I’ll watch you sing one night? Or something of that sort.”

“Yeah.” Brendon straightened, pulling himself away from the bar. “I’ll talk to Dallon.”

There were a few moments of silence between the pair. Moments when Ryan watched Brendon smoke in his casual clothes and Brendon watched Ryan sit in his pajamas at his counter. Something didn’t fit quite right. 

“I’ve gotta head,” Brendon said. “To work. I gotta get to work. To sing.”

“Alright,” Ryan responded, watching as Brendon started to move away from the bar and walk to the couch to put on his oxfords. “I think I’ll just stay here then.”

“You can make food if you want,” Brendon suggested. 

“Yes, I’ll have dinner waiting for when you get back,” Ryan said in a falsely sweet voice and Brendon snorted. "Nah. I'll make a cup of coffee since you're leaving me hanging."

Brendon turned back, looking slightly distressed by the realization that he'd never made Ryan a cup. "Rain check on coffee. I'll make some tomorrow. Don't even worry about it. I will."

"I'm holding you to that." And Ryan was going to. 

“Do what you want tonight, but I don’t want you to leave,” Brendon said as he straightened up and Ryan felt his heart jump before Brendon kept talking, “Becuase you won’t be able to get back in. So just stay in tonight, make dinner. Sleep some more? Might be good for you. Rebandage hands. Uh… Anything I’m forgetting? Feel free to make yourself at home, I don’t mind. I’ll be back around two a.m. or so, so I wouldn’t wait up.”

Ryan waited for him to breathe. Brendon waved his cigarette around the house as he talked and smoke trailed after it wherever it went, dying the world grey in its wake. 

“Okay. Sure you’re alright?” Brendon asked. 

Ryan flashed a smile that was hardly believable. “Never better.” 

Brendon started for the door, pulling it open, and calling over his shoulder thoughtfully, “Maybe I’ll get you a key made.”

Ryan stared. Get a key made? For him? To Brendon’s house? His heart was certainly doing flips inside his chest. Maybe Brendon didn’t think he looked as out of place as he felt. Maybe Brendon really didn’t mind him being there. Ryan could only hope so. 

“Okay,” Ryan replied meekly and watched Brendon start to exit. “Bye, Bren.” 

Brendon simply turned around, dipped his head, and—cigarette still between two fingers—saluted Ryan as he went to the door. It made Ryan think of the toy soldier that shared Brendon’s name. When had Brendon ever saluted him? Just now, as he left Ryan alone in his house to make himself at home while he went to work. 

Brendon saluted him. Just like a toy soldier had.

“Bye Ryan,” Brendon sang. 

He took a drag from his cigarette before the door closed behind him when he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello. Thank you for reading. Sorry! Couldn't find time to write. Chapters will be about every two or three days for about the next week and a half. When summer comes they will be pretty frequent (like every day) again. So bare with me until then! Thank you, thank you.


	16. Nervous Notes on Napkins

Brendon smoked when he was nervous. And Dallon Weekes kissing him and Ryan Ross staying in his house was sufficiently enough to make him a tad bit on edge. 

So, as he walked to The Church—strides significantly longer than they needed to be—he smoked profusely. Breathed in smoke so quickly that he coughed on it and spit out clouds of ash. 

He was going to die choking on cigarette fumes. Or he was if he kept smoking the way he was. Desperately breathing in smoke like it was a new form of oxygen. What a way to go. Survive war and get killed by a cigarette he was only smoking because his best friend kissed him and his other best friend was sleeping his bed. 

What a way to die.

Dallon kissed him. He did it. And Brendon needed to find a way deal with that that didn’t involve burning his lungs out. Head on; he needed to see Dallon and speak with him and make his intentions perfectly clear. Which were… he wasn’t quite sure yet but he’d figure it out on his walk. Brendon needed a plan. A set plan. First thing was first, he was going to walk into The Church. Yes. Create a plan step by step, that would make this whole thing manageable. 

_Step one_ : Arrive at The Church on time to sing. Walk inside. 

_Step two_ : Go straight to Dallon. Don’t dilly dally. Don’t get distracted. Go straight to Dallon

 _Step three_ : Tell Dallon that—

Tell Dallon what? Brendon still wasn’t entirely sure. Tell Dallon that he loved him—as a friend—and he didn’t want anything to damage their relationship. Yes. Right. Tell Dallon that it just… It wouldn’t work. It was a bad idea and they both knew it. Fags couldn’t be together, that was too much hassle. And that on top of being each other’s crutch… it would be a disaster. Brendon couldn’t lose Dallon. So he would let Dallon down gently and maintain the friendship. 

That was the only way it could go.

How could that go wrong? A lot of ways actually, now that Brendon was going through them in his head. That could go wrong in a _lot_ of different ways. Far too many.

Dallon could be angry at him. Could be furious. Dallon could be heartbroken. What if Dallon was mad? What if Dallon said ‘romantic relationship or no dice’? That would be bad. That would be very, very bad. What if Dallon wanted to cut ties with Brendon altogether if Brendon wasn’t willing to love him? 

But Brendon was willing to love—This whole thing was far too confusing. Why did this all have to be confusing?

 _Be honest with yourself Brendon,_ he thought as he walked, _if Ryan weren’t here, would you say yes?_

And he knew the answer. The only thing throwing a wrench in his plans was Ryan Ross’s presence. Which was stupid. It was very—so very—stupid. But it was the truth. And Brendon needed to tell the truth more. 

He needed to tell Ryan he was gay. 

No. He couldn’t do that. Ryan might hate him for that. Or, if nothing else, it might ruin their friendship. Too many friendships caught in the crossfire of this whole ordeal. He went through ideas in his head. Ran through his limited choices. 

_Option one: Be in a relationship with Dallon and risk losing Ryan._

_Option two: Deny Dallon’s affections and continue to pretend to be straight for Ryan’s benefit. Keep Ryan._

_Option three: Die, I guess._

That was not enough options. He needed another option. Something that ensured keeping both Dallon and Ryan. As friends, sure. He was fine with having them both as friends and if he had to, he could keep lying to Ryan about his sexual preferences. What Ryan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Brendon didn’t _want_ to do that though. Not by a long shot. Although, if it meant keeping the peace between them—and he was in desperate need of some peace—he was willing to do that. He was willing to lie. 

He wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t for Dallon. Goddamn Dallon with his shit timing. All of this stress, the smoking, that was Dallon’s fault. And Brendon would be sure to tell Dallon that when he saw him. 

He’d say ‘hey you! You see this cigarette! This is your doing! Your fault!’ and then he’d come up with some other stupid insult to hurl and then Dallon would say something sad back and Brendon would feel guilty instantly when he saw Dallon’s batting blue eyes. 

This wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. 

How dare Dallon Weekes and Ryan Ross do this to him. How dare they exist around him; with those smiles of theirs and those eyes and their calm voices. How dare Ryan Ross and Dallon Weekes live. How dare they.

Brendon rubbed at his forehead as he walked. He needed to come to a consensus. He needed to have a set plan before he got to The Church. It wouldn’t be any good if he went in there without a battle strategy. Without a proper plan of attack. For God sakes, he should know how to do this. 

He needed to know what he was going to say to Dallon. But as he tilted his head hello to Butch and entered, cigarette almost entirely gone, he still didn’t have the slightest clue. 

But he’d completed step one so that was a plus. He was inside The Church. He was there. Step one was done, onto the next. He knew what he wanted to do. He knew what he had to do. Find Dallon and tell him no. 

No getting distracted by his heartbreaker blue eyes. No getting distracted by his smile or his checkered shirt or his unslicked hair. None of that. No. That was the answer Brendon had prepared. 

_No._

“B,” Jon Walker’s voice came clear from the side and Brendon jumped a little in surprise. He’d been so far in his own head he hadn’t even noticed Jon standing beside him, eyes thin as he looked Brendon up and down. Took into account the big, fidgeting eyes and the half gone cigarette in his fingers. “Hell’s the matter with you, kid?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Brendon said, waving his hand around and the cigarette fizzled. He paused then, realizing what Jon had said and turned, blinking in confusion. “Did you just call me B?”

Jon shrugged. “Sounds better than Brendon, doesn’t it?”

“I happen to like the name Brendon,” he answered.

“What? ‘Cause your mama gave it to you?” Jon chuckled like he’d said something funny. Brendon couldn’t say he got the joke. “Nothing good about something someone else gives you, B.”

“Isn’t Jon your given name?” Brendon asked. He didn’t enjoy Jon’s sense of humor so much. Didn’t enjoy his cryptic insults and he didn’t enjoy the way Jon talked to him and the way he looked at Dallon. Positively predatory. 

Jon smiled the way a predator would. He flashed a wink. “You don’t know that.”

Brendon shook his head, already mildly irritated with Jon Walker before the sudden realization hit him. Jon Walker. He was talking to Jon Walker. The man who sent a napkin to Ryan Ross in Vegas. Maybe Brendon shouldn’t blame Dallon at all. Maybe he should blame Jon. 

“What’re you looking at me for?” Jon asked and he sounded just as irritated as Brendon felt. 

“Where do you get off, huh?” Brendon fired back before he could even come to a proper thought about what it was he wanted to say. He really just wanted to yell at Jon. Blame anyone for his problems but himself. 

“In my bedroom with my wife, B, why do you ask?” Jon smiled at him. “Getting lonely?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the note?” Brendon snapped, in no mood to play games with Jon Walker. He didn’t have time to play games. 

“What note?” Jon asked, taking a step away from Brendon and looking stupider than usual. He wiped off the front of his coat and tilted his head. Brendon hated the way he looked. Was angered by it. 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Jon—”

“Do you usually talk this way to your employer?” Jon asked.

Brendon seethed, his blood pumping through his veins at an erratic rate. “You don’t pay me.”

“I don’t have to. We had a deal,” Jon reminded. 

“Which you make out to be some grand gesture you did for me because you thought I forgot about it.” Brendon pointed an accusing finger. “The note to Vegas, Jon.”

His face noticeably fell. 

“That’s the ‘deal’ we made. I’m singing two weeks _free_ because you mailed a goddamn napkin for me!” Brendon growled. “Now tell me how that’s fair.”

“Fairs are for tourists kid,” Jon said and he sounded like every father Brendon had ever known. 

“I could have mailed a napkin myself! Two weeks! Free!” Brendon all but shouted. 

Jon sent a look around as if worried someone might overhear the conversation. Worried his reputation would be at stake if someone saw the gay jazz singer yelling at him about notes on napkins. 

“Hey,” Jon said, raising his hands up in surrender as he turned back to Brendon. His eyes were dangerous. “I didn’t propose the deal. I just shook on it.”

“I was drunk!” Brendon yelled fully that time. “You made a deal with me when I was _drunk_!”

Jon shrugged and his nervous smile was easy to see. “A deal’s a deal, B. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You’re a bastard, Jon Walker,” Brendon bit out between gritted teeth. “A right bastard.”

“Thank you. Means a lot coming from someone like you,” Jon said through that same infuriating smile. “Insults from your kind mean the world.”

“You really do enjoy it don’t you?” Brendon asked spitefully. “Ruining me? Hell did I ever do to you, Jon Walker? We went to church together for God’s sake. I sing at your bar. Why? Why did you send that note?”

“You asked me. Just trying to be a pal.” Jon straightened his jacket and picked at a button. “But since you ask, I enjoy a lot of things, B. And ruining? That’s certainly a favorite. People are fun to ruin. You should try it sometime.”

Brendon scowled. “Did you even care what the note said? Did you even read it?”

“Of course I didn’t care,” Jon spat, rolling his eyes. The game didn’t seem as fun to him as it had previously been. “Like I care what you do. What fancy fag love poems you’re writing on napkins.”

Brendon balled his hands into fists at his sides. “You should be careful what you call me, Jon Walker.”

“What?” Jon asked. “You don’t like ‘fag’? That’s too bad kid because that’s what the world calls you. I’d get used to it.”

“Oh, I’m plenty used to it,” Brendon challenged. “But coming from guys like you—”

“Guys like me?” Jon raised his voice. “As if I’m below you? Who hired you, Brendon Urie? Who do you sing for, huh? Who’s club are you standing in?”

Brendon opened his mouth to yell out a slur of insults but wasn’t even able to get one out as none other than Eric Ronick appeared at their side, hands raised in a peaceful protest and eyes darting anxiously between the pair.

“Fellas?” Eric asked; the mediator. “Everything alright here?”

“It’s fine, Eric; go back to your damn piano,” Jon retorted.

“Well I will, but I need Brendon to come with me,” Eric said. “He’s on in fifteen. You know that, sir.”

Jon blinked a few times, turning to Eric and then to Brendon. Something flickered in his eyes and all the anger appeared to drain out of him right then and there as if it had never existed in the first place. He waved a hand for Eric to move along and, reluctantly, Eric took a step back and out of harm’s way. In return—a step for a step—Jon moved closer to Brendon, never taking his eyes off him. 

“I should fire you,” Jon said in a lowered voice. “Talking to me like that.”

“I’d like to see you try it,” Brendon said back. He folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll get another job within the week. Only reason people come to this bar now is because of me. My voice. And you know it too. That’s why you made that deal. ‘Cause you wanted me to stay.”

“You don’t know what I want. And I didn’t make the deal,” Jon reminded in a hiss. “I just shook on it. You’re the one that wanted that note mailed so bad.”

Brendon didn’t know what to say to that. Had he really been so eager to mail that letter to Ryan? So desirous that he offered two weeks free instantly? That was about stupid. Brendon was stupid when it came to Ryan Ross though, wasn’t he? It just kept becoming more and more apparent. 

“I should kick you out on your ass after tonight,” Jon repeated. “I should fire you.”

“You won’t.” Brendon dropped what was left of his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it with his nice oxfords. He never broke his gaze from Jon’s. “I dare you.”

Jon didn’t say anything. Just nodded, scowled a little, and then broke into an unnecessary smile. He reached out to pat Brendon hard on the shoulder, squeezing onto him, and pretending not to notice when Brendon flinched away in disgust. “Get along now, B. Eric says you’re on.”

Brendon didn’t need to be told twice. He went after Eric, following him to the stage. He left his crushed cigarette behind him at Jon’s feet.

Step two was successfully a bust. He hadn’t gone straight to Dallon. He hadn’t even seen Dallon. Where was Dallon, anyway? Brendon didn’t actually know. He should find Dallon. He needed to. 

“What’s got Jon ruffled now?” Eric asked, hanging back a little so that he could walk beside Brendon. He had a crease to his brow and his frown was plain to see. 

He wasn’t a bad looking guy, Eric. Not really Brendon’s type. Not soft enough looking with a more angular face and a sharper nose. A constant look of relaxed distress which Brendon couldn’t mimic if he tried. Brendon was more drawn towards guys like Dallon. Guys with heartbreaker eyes or shatter-me whiskey ones. 

Brendon shrugged unconvincingly. “Couldn’t tell you.”

Eric shook his head, obviously disbelieving but didn’t seem interested enough to say anything back on the subject so he went on with a new topic, “You wanna do the same set as Monday?”

“Sure Eric, that’s fine,” Brendon said, equally uninterested. “Play whatever you want, I don’t care. I’ll find a way to sing it.”

Eric nodded. There was a minor pause before he spoke again. “You written anymore on that love song?”

“What love song?” Brendon turned to him, perplexed.

“Former love?” Eric prompted. 

Oh right. ‘Former love.’ Brendon was supposed to write some more lyrics for that song. He hadn’t even meant to sing that line. And somehow he agreed to write a full song based on one stupid mistake. He needed to stop agreeing to things. Agreed to sing for Jon. Agreed to write a song for Eric. Agreed to let Ryan Ross stay in his bed. 

The best solution to the final problem would have been not to let Ryan stay at all. To tell him to shack up in a hotel and come over for lunch once or twice and then tell him to high tail it back to Las Vegas. Where he belonged. He didn’t belong with Brendon. In his apartment. In his room. In his bed. Ryan didn’t belong there. 

But Brendon knew he wouldn’t ask Ryan to leave. If anything, he’d end up asking Ryan to stay. 

When the time came for Ryan to leave, Brendon knew he wouldn’t want him to. The time for Ryan to leave. That didn’t track very well, did it? When would Ryan be leaving? What were his exact plans? It didn’t strike Brendon that he had any. How long was he planning on staying with Brendon? How long was Brendon willing to let him?

“I haven’t had time,” Brendon answered curtly. And frankly, it was the truth. Between a beaten Ryan and the Dallon kissing fiasco, there hadn’t been a lot of time to write songs based on mistakes. 

Eric folded his arms as they walked up to the stage. “How come? What d’you do in your free time, Urie? You don’t have a day job do you?”

“I don’t.”

“So what do you do?” Eric wanted to know. 

“Been taking care of a uh—” Brendon trailed off, unsure of what exactly he wanted to say. He shook his head and tried again. “I got a friend in town.”

Eric was intrigued instantly, perking up. “What sorta friend?” 

“A war friend,” Brendon answered. 

“War friend?” Eric chorused. “This friend have a name?”

“Ryan,” Brendon said, not feeling the need to give out a last name to Eric. Something about giving out Ryan’s full name felt off. Felt wrong in a way that Brendon couldn’t explain. 

Eric waited for a last name but didn’t seem perturbed when he didn’t get one. “And he’s staying with you?”

“He is.”

The pair had stopped at the bottom of the stage, one of Brendon’s feet on the first steps to get up. Obviously, though, he couldn’t get up there without Eric to play the piano for him. No one wanted to hear him drone on acapella in songs that were mainly instrumental. The silences would be torturous. 

Eric stayed on the floor, blinking up at Brendon with a small smile. A devious one at that. 

“You got a big house, Urie?” Eric asked. 

“Don’t have a house,” Brendon answered, in a hurry to get on the stage. “An apartment.”

“A two bedroom apartment!” Eric said a little too enthused. Fake amusement, Brendon could tell that. “You must love that. Perfect for old buddies stopping by.”

“It’s a one bedroom,” Brendon replied bluntly. 

That seemed to be exactly what Eric wanted to hear as his smile curled wider. “You must really love that.”

“He’s a friend, Eric.” Brendon might have smiled if he weren’t so irrationally vexed by the whole debacle. Besides, he didn’t need to be singing. He needed to talk to Dallon. Where the hell was he anyway? 

“A buddy from war. War’s over,” Eric sang out like he was piecing together a puzzle. “You end early and sing a song with the words ‘former love’ in it when this Ryan fella’s in town. I don’t know, Urie. Seems sort of suspicious to me.”

“I didn’t know he was in town when I messed up the lyric,” Brendon replied and he hadn’t. So Ryan Ross couldn’t have a thing to do with this ‘former love’ nonsense. Not when Brendon didn’t even know he was in town. It didn’t add up. Didn’t make sense at all. 

“So he appeared this morning, then?” Eric asked. 

“Last night.”

“Right after the song?” Eric lowered his voice, leaning in so Brendon could hear him better and no one else could. 

Brendon hooked a thumb towards the stage and started to climb the second step. “We should play, Eric.”

“You sang ‘former love’ and then one appears right on your doorstep! How perfect is that! Wish I could just sing things and they’d appear,” Eric mused. “Maybe you’re magic, Brendon Urie.”

“I’m not magic.” 

Brendon made his way onto the stage and towards the microphone. He didn’t feel fearful in the slightest. It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t some beautiful, serine thing. It was just Brendon in front of a drunk crowd and he was going to sing. Singing was like breathing to him anyway. It would be fine. It was just like standing in front of a crowd and breathing. He could manage. 

Eric sat at his piano and ghosted his fingers over the keys. He said, voice only loud enough for Brendon to hear across the small stage, “You might be.”

“Good evening ladies and gentleman,” Brendon said into the microphone, completely ignoring what Eric had just said to him. He wasn’t magic. And Ryan Ross wasn’t some sort of miracle on his doorstep. And he certainly wasn’t his ‘former love’ or whatever Eric was on about. None of this was right. “If you didn’t know, I’m Brendon Urie, and I’m here to sing you a tune or two.” 

He listened to Eric tap at the piano keys. Let his mind match his voice to the notes. Opened his mouth, and he breathed. That’s all he had to do. Just breathe. 

He closed his eyes and did the same things he always did. It was soothing, to say the least, on his aching brain. Washed away all those thoughts of Ryan Ross and Dallon Weekes. Just let his mind rest. Only for a few songs. But that’s all he needed. Just a few songs to make him forget. 

He got about seven songs into forgetting when he spotted a figure across the bar watching him. Standing with Jon Walker, eyes surveying him up and down as he sang. Dallon Weekes.

And suddenly it was increasingly hard to breathe. 

Brendon did his best not to trip over the lyrics but he knew his voice had hit one of those notes wrong, got a little strangled towards the end. Eric, who seemed to have been the only one to notice, sent him a worried glance but Brendon didn’t stop singing. He kept on, darting his eyes away from his friend. He wouldn’t give Dallon the benefit of a private show. 

Brendon sang well, he knew he did. No wonder Dallon couldn’t take his eyes off of him. Or maybe it was because Dallon was looking for some sort of clue. As to whether or not Brendon would tell him yes or not. 

Brendon had the right to be mad. He could be mad if he wanted to be. Could be the victim in all this. Tell Dallon it wasn’t fair that he kissed him. Be the one mad at him. Brendon realized then that there were many more ways this conversation could go. Half of them centered on Dallon, how hurt he was. But the other half could easily sway towards Brendon. He could make this his sob story if he wanted to. 

Half of Brendon wanted to cut his set short again. But there were about five songs left, all of them good and worthy of his voice. He shouldn’t abandon them. He should sing them, just as beautiful as he could. He’d make Dallon wait. 

He could if he wanted to. 

So he did. He sang and sang. Every single song he was supposed to until the set was done. Until he smiled into the microphone, took his final breath on the stage that night, and said, “Thank you.”

Eric slammed his hands on the keys and the music flooded the room for but a moment before it faded out. Before Brendon turned and clambered off the stage and onto the floor. He could hear Eric start up the ending piano song for the night. That was the cue for the last of the stragglers to vacate. And they did. 

Brendon walked from the stage straight towards where he knew Dallon and Jon were standing together in the back of the bar. Step two had been delayed, sure, but it was back in motion. The plan was back on. Brendon had a plan.

Dallon and Jon both stared at him as he came over. 

Dallon had changed clothes since Brendon had seen him and he didn’t look as disheveled as he had at Brendon’s door that morning. Checkered shirt, slacks. Just like he had the first time Brendon saw him a week prior. Straight back from war. 

He looked older and Brendon wondered if he’d managed to sleep at all since the morning at his apartment. How often did Dallon Weekes sleep? 

“Hey fellas,” Brendon greeted as casually as he could and Dallon and Jon both kept their eyes trained on him. Brendon didn’t waste any time, turning to Dallon straight on. He wouldn’t let Dallon evade his glare. “You think maybe I could talk to you for a minute, Dal?”

Dallon visibly twitched at Brendon’s voice directed at him. He tried to come up with an excuse and Brendon could see in the eyes that he didn’t have a clue, “Well, see actually I was—”

Brendon narrowed his eyes. He was stupid. Not an idiot. “It’s sort of important.”

Dallon, floundering for the right words—a fish on dry land—turned to look at Jon, hopeful for any way out of his current predicament. Jon didn’t offer anything. “I—Brendon look—”

“ _Now_ , Dallon.”

“I—” Dallon swallowed apprehensively and sent another glance to his side at Jon. Jon was a bad friend. He didn’t say anything. Dallon slouched his shoulders in defeat as he focused back in on Brendon’s glare. “Could we go somewhere more… private?”

Jon snorted out loud and Brendon, once again, imagined what it would feel like to punch him.

“Wherever you wanna go, Dal,” Brendon offered, blank-faced. “You lead the way and I’ll follow.”

Dallon nodded cautiously and—without another word—wandered off towards the stage, or the part just behind it where the musicians would put their instruments when they left them at the bar. Brendon trailed after him without protest. It was a smaller room and there was a crate inside which Brendon assumed held alcohol. 

Dallon entered on careful feet, stepping around a violin case—Brendon didn’t realize they had a violinist—to shut the door. Once the door shut, the closet-like room was bathed in black for a second before Dallon tugged at a chain from the ceiling and a musky lightbulb illuminated the tiny space. 

It was maybe a five by six foot room but Brendon and Dallon still did their best to keep away from each other. Brendon leaned up against the opposite wall next to an empty cello case and Dallon stood stiffly across from him, a foot from the opposite wall. 

Dallon stared down at Brendon, frustration plain in his features. But Brendon could see something else behind his eyes. Something like hurt and Brendon blamed himself for it. He wished Dallon didn’t look so pathetic as he stood there, tired eyes and sweat curled hair. 

The space felt entirely too small and Brendon shifted his back against the wall. He almost asked Dallon to back up more so he wasn’t so close but that might have been worse. Both of them pressed up against instruments and alcohol crates, just desperate not to touch one another. 

Dallon scowled and—to Brendon’s surprise—he was the first to speak. 

“What do you want from me?” Dallon demanded and his voice was sharp. Much sharper than Brendon had expected with how worried he had seemed outside but perhaps that had just been because he was worried about Jon’s presence. Didn’t want his reputation ruined by someone like Brendon Urie. 

“What do _I_ want from you?” Brendon repeated, stabbing himself in the chest with a finger. Dallon nodded at him and Brendon scoffed, turning the finger toward Dallon, pointing back in an accusatory manner. “What do _you_ want from me?”

Dallon threw up his hands mockingly. “You can’t just ask me the same question, Brendon.”

“Tough luck,” Brendon bit. “I did. Now answer it. What do you want from me?”

“I don’t have to answer you,” Dallon said, pouting like he was a child. 

“What the hell do you mean you don’t have to answer me?” Brendon kept his voice low in case the walls weren’t as thick as he hoped. “Of course you do!”

“Not until you answer me first.” Dallon was a child. A proper child. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Brendon said back, just as childish. 

“I- _I’m_ being ridicul—you know, I can’t have this conversation with you.” Dallon clenched his fists and held them against his sides. “I’m so mad I can barely see straight, Brendon. We are not having this conversation.”

Brendon couldn’t help letting his jaw fall open. Anger bubbled up from his stomach.“No. _No._ You do _not_ get to be mad at me, Dallon Weekes. If anything, I should be mad at you.”

“Why would you be mad at me?” Dallon asked and how dare he not know. Brendon could be mad at him for just about everything at that moment. 

“Planting one on me without warning or anything like that was supposed to solve a thing! Just grabbing my face and—” Brendon lowered his voice to a hiss. “ _Kissing_ me! I should have punched your fucking lights out then and there, Dallon.”

Dallon’s posture slumped and Brendon could read his expression clear as day. Guilt. 

“I’m sorry,” Dallon said. “I know… I know I shouldn’t have done that, but it’s just that…” 

He fell short and Brendon gawked at him, asking impatiently, “What? What is it?” ‘

“I wanted to kiss you,” Dallon said like that would answer anything. But his voice was small and hopeful and for a split second, Brendon let his heart skip a beat. 

“Well,” Brendon said in indignation, although his intentions wavered. “You should have asked." 

Dallon licked at his lips. “Would you have said yes?” 

Brendon hadn’t been expecting that. He opened his mouth, tried to think of an answer, and when he couldn’t come up with one threw his hands up. “I don’t know!” 

“See—” Dallon gestured towards Brendon. “That’s why I didn’t ask.” 

Brendon exhaled sharply. He asked, leaning off the wall a little and doing his best to avert his eyes from Dallon’s own gaze, “Why did you want to kiss me, Dallon?” 

“I don’t know,” Dallon answered, dejected. “I just did.”

“But why.”

“I don’t know _why_ Brendon,” Dallon said, sounding defeated and desperate for some sort of understanding from Brendon. An understanding that Brendon couldn’t give him. “I just wanted to kiss you.” 

Brendon stared at him. He spoke before he could even think about it. “So you’re in love with me.”

Dallon’s own jaw dropped, obviously panicked. “Hey, I never said that. When did I say that?” 

“So you’re not in love with me,” Brendon replied slowly. 

There was a stilted pause. Dallon’s voice was hesitant. “I didn’t say that either…” 

Brendon sighed, rolling his eyes and he squeezed the bridge of his nose, one arm wrapped around his middle as he pressed his back to the wall. “So what are you then?” 

“I don’t know!” Dallon cried. “Infatuated? Allured? Pick whatever adjective you like, Brendon, I enjoy you—hell, you’re one of my best friends—and…”

“And what?”

“And I want you.”

Brendon stiffened. He didn’t like that wording. Sounded the same as ‘mine’. As if Brendon could be anyone else’s besides his own. “You… want me?” 

“Yeah.” Dallon sounded breathless and he couldn’t seem to take his eyes of Brendon. It made Brendon’s skin feel itchy and hot. Like it wasn’t his. It was someone else’s skin he was trapped in. Dallon noticed the discomfort. “Is that not the right thing to say?” 

Brendon looked down, out of Dallon’s piercing blue gaze and asked, shaking his head, “Why the hell would you want me? I don’t—Why would you—?” 

Dallon let out a hacking laugh. Not a real laugh. Just a garbled sound. “I already told you, Brendon, I just do! Alright? I can’t explain it to you. I just do.”

Dallon really needed to stop looking at him like that. Brendon stressed, begging Dallon, “What do you want from me?” 

“I don’t know!” Dallon raised his voice. “What do _you_ want from _me_!” 

“I don’t know.” And he really didn’t. What had his answer been again? No. He wanted to tell Dallon no. He had to, didn’t he? If he wanted to keep Ryan. But with the way that Dallon was looking at him… he didn’t know if he could do that. How was he supposed to say no to Dallon? 

Dallon smiled an awkward smile in the silence. “Well, this is one son of a bitch isn’t it.” 

Brendon laughed because _yeah_ , it really was. 

There was a pause. A pause where Brendon just stared at Dallon. Those hopeful blue eyes. Heart-breaker eyes and he bet Dallon knew that. He knew the way he was looking at Brendon. Knew how it made his skin crawl. He was doing it on purpose, wasn’t he? Making Brendon think his plans over. 

Why couldn’t Dallon make this easy on him? Why couldn’t he just stand there and listen to what Brendon had to say? Why did Dallon have to look at him like that? Make Brendon notice his lips, how soft they looked and how soft he knew they would be if he kissed them right. How blue and glossy his eyes were. Why did Dallon have to do that? 

“Can I just—can I just try something?” Brendon asked, not really sure yet about what exactly he wanted to do.

“Try what?” Dallon asked, equally as confused. 

“It might not mean anything,” Brendon said which wasn’t really an answer, but it was the best one he could come up with. “It might mean nothing.”

Dallon looked like it meant everything. “Yeah… yeah sure, you can.” 

And Brendon stood there, unwavering, thinking about it before he decided what he wanted to do. He decided to step forward carefully, slowly. Decided to look Dallon over. Over his parted lips and his glossy eyes and his idiot looking checkered shirt and fluffy hair.

“This might mean nothing,” Brendon said again, stepping into Dallon’s space.

Dallon stared at him. His throat bobbed when he swallowed and Brendon watched it before glancing back up at his eyes. Watched Dallon’s lips move when he spoke the word. “Okay.” 

Brendon made his final decision. He decided to kiss Dallon. Take him gently by the front of his shirt and pull him down, press their lips together. Just a greeting. A gentle hello. And Dallon kissed him back without hesitation. 

And Brendon was right. Those lips were soft. 

Much different from his apartment. No anger. No desperation. Just a soft press against his own mouth. A kind kiss and the sort that Brendon hated to love. 

Dallon didn’t taste bad. 

Brendon knew that he had to taste like smoke and that taste alone slightly overpowered Dallon’s own but Brendon could get the subtle hint of a Gin Rickey on his tongue. No sugar, which Brendon was slightly saddened by. He liked sugar, sweetness. But there was lime there and a mix of gin and soda water. A sort of fizz on Brendon’s tongue. A lingering taste when they broke apart. 

They hovered for a moment, a few inches apart and Brendon could feel Dallon’s breath on his lips. 

Brendon stared at Dallon, who still had his eyes closed, eyelashes over flushed cheeks. He was beautiful. He really was. Brendon’s heart did a strange flip in his chest that he couldn’t quite translate. 

That meant something. That had to mean something. 

Dallon’s eyes stayed fluttered shut when he asked, silently and in a thick voice, “Can I do that again, please?” 

Brendon didn’t say anything. Just nodded even though he couldn’t be seen and took Dallon by the shirt again, pulling the two of them together so he could connect his lips with Dallon’s once more. 

The second kiss was slightly more than a hello.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hate that this took longer than I said it would! Sorry, but time is sparse. That being said, it'll probably be a similar break between the next chapter and this one. Don't worry though, I'll have free time in about a week and then I won't be able to stop writing! Thanks for reading.


	17. Book of Brendon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are several explicit dates (as in a specific day, month, year) mentioned in this chapter but don't flip out if you don't recognize them. Some of them are in flashbacks that haven't been written yet and will be revealed later in the story. Or I just haven't stated exactly what day they are. Feel free to try and piece it together but there are two, I think, that have never been mentioned before.

Ryan had been right; he still had Mike Naran’s baby bible in his pack. It was in one of the smaller pockets and Ryan cursed himself for sitting the bag at a wrong angle because a corner of the bible was curled up and several pages split at the bottom. 

No matter though, it was still there. Still in one piece. Ryan Ross still had his bible, just the same as it had been save for the few minor disconfigurations. He could still see the dirty thumbprints on the pages and the scribblings in the margins. The torn leather cover and the frayed piece of ribbon that served as a page marker. It was a real piece of garbage, wasn’t it? Now that Ryan was looking at it somewhere other than France. 

In France, the bible hadn’t looked so different than anything else. Everything was trash there. Dirty and soiled. But in Brendon’s comfy little apartment? Mike's baby bible couldn’t have been more out of place. 

A war bible didn’t belong in a home. 

Ryan leafed through it as he walked over to Brendon’s couch to sit down. Inspected the damage done. He had dressed himself after Brendon had left, not eager to sit around alone in Brendon’s apartment in his briefs. That felt a breach of privacy. Brendon was kind enough to let him stay; probably not kind enough to let Ryan prance around in his underwear all day and night. He wished he had more clothes than white button-ups and suspenders. Slightly too formal. _Casual_ -formal, perhaps. As though he was about to head out for a night on the town. 

He should have one of those. A tour around town. Explore Clearfield. Get to know it like the back of his hand like he assumed Brendon did. Did Brendon grow up in Clearfield? Were his parents still around? Did they live here? Would Ryan get to meet them? He should go look around. Find out what made Clearfield tick. Find out what made it worthy of someone like Brendon. Well, actually, no he shouldn't. Why would he? It wasn’t as if _he_ lived in Clearfield. He shouldn’t want to explore Brendon’s town. Shouldn’t want to get to know it. He was visiting. _Just_ visiting. Why was it so hard to remember that?

He needed to figure out how long he would be staying for. A proper time. Two days. Two weeks. He needed a timeline for Brendon. Couldn't keep him guessing. Ryan had a house back in Vegas. A house all his own that he couldn’t just leave behind. Or shouldn't, anyhow. And technically his father—not that Ryan would ever go back just for him—was there too. His family. And Z and Spencer were both in Las Vegas. Waiting for his safe return. 

Not that Ryan really ever wanted to talk to Spencer again. Not after their last phone call. And he doubted seriously that Spencer was keen on talking to him either. And Z… Well, that would probably just be painful, wouldn’t it? Carrying on a conversation with a girl who he used to love. A girl who used to love him. Everyone was addicted to used love, weren't they? 

So he was alone then. Alone asides from Brendon Urie and his clean, widowed apartment. That was bad. He shouldn’t dump himself on Brendon like that. It wasn’t fair to him. 

But Brendon had offered to him to stay. Hell, Brendon had all but encouraged it. Brendon _wanted_ him to stay. Well and truly, he did. So, at least for the time being, Ryan would. But only for a while. 

Ryan glanced away from the bible to the window that was still open from Brendon's smoking. A breeze wafted in and the sun outside had sunk down. It was night, later than night, and Ryan wasn’t the slightest bit tired. He shouldn’t have slept through the morning and afternoon. He should have saved his sleep for the nighttime. When he could properly make use of it. But he hadn’t. And for that, he was stupid. 

He sat back on Brendon’s couch, leaning against the armrest and folding his legs beneath himself. Shifted down to make himself more comfortable, pulling a sofa pillow into his lap to rest the bible on. A little lap table so he could read the word of God. 

The pages were stiff between his fingers and he rubbed one between his pointer and thumb. Half expected it to disintegrate the moment he touched it. 

He couldn’t remember quite what had gone through his head when he took it. He had read it frequently when Mike was off doing other things. Talking to people more enthralling than Ryan Ross. Ryan had only asked Mike once if he could read the bible. 

He’d said to Mike one day, “Hey Naran, you mind if I take a look at that?”

And Mike hadn’t said a word in protest. Just looked between his bible and Ryan before handing it over, going straight back to talking with Dan Pawlovich about what made a girl pretty. Maybe Mike knew how much a soldier needed a bible in war. Or maybe he was just in a rush to talk about girls.

He had been a good guy, Mike Naran. Good like every other man in war. Ready to talk about women and brag about girls he'd kissed and girls he hadn't gotten the chance to. Quick to lend a smoke or help carry someone's bag if they asked. Willing to lend over a bible. Not the best man by any stretch. No one was. But he wasn't bad. And if you weren't a bad person, then you had to be a good person. 

Shouldn’t have shot himself though. That was a bad move. 

Ryan wondered if Mike regretted shooting himself. Ryan had never been shot, so he couldn't really judge. He didn’t know what it felt like to be shot. Didn’t know what the moments before and after were like. Didn’t know about that feeling when a bullet hit you.

Didn't really know about those moments when you hit the ground and stare into oblivion thinking, 'oh so this is what it's like to die' or stare at the same piece of grass and think 'so this is the last thing I'll ever see. This piece of grass. That's my summary of the world.' Ryan Ross didn't know what it was like to die. 

Ryan didn’t know about being shot. Not to say, however, that he didn’t know about death itself. Ryan Ross knew plenty about death. Three years in France during the war would do that to a guy.

Didn't know about dying, sure. But he knew about death. 

The first time he’d seen a man die was by the hands of Brendon Urie and his rifle, dried blood in his hair. Not the first time Ryan had seen death though. Death and murder were two very different things. 

Or so Mike Naran’s baby bible had led him to believe. 

‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’ the baby bible told him. And next to the phrase, in a barely readable font, Ryan had written: _11-10-42 — B. Urie_

November 10th, 1942. 

The day, month, and year of when Brendon Urie shot a faceless man in Normandy. A head without a face, just a gaping contusion where red and black blood dripped from the cracks in a broken brain. Forever immortalized in Ryan Ross’s stolen bible. Reason enough for Brendon Urie to go to Hell right there. Could go to Hell for killing a man. Ryan wondered if Brendon had come to peace with that. Going to Hell. Or was that something you never came to peace with?

Ryan hadn’t really come to terms with it himself yet. Hadn’t really come to terms with Hell at all. Was it real? Heaven, Hell? How could you prove something like that? And if they were real, where was he going? 

He hadn’t directly shot a man. Never actually killed somebody. Not really. Sure, he aimed a gun but he closed his eyes when he pulled the trigger. So technically, Ryan had never killed somebody. So maybe he wasn’t going to Hell. But then should he feel guilty about not firing a gun straight on? Forfeiting in some kind of a way. Forfeiting his ticket to Hell and lying to get into Heaven. 

Ryan Ross wasn’t meant for Heaven. Hell was much better suited to his preferences. That being said though, given what the bible said, no one should go to Heaven. No one was worthy for that place. 

Couldn’t print anything on your skin, weren’t supposed to eat anything with hooves or anything in the sea that didn’t have scales, shouldn’t hold grudges against people, shouldn’t shoot people on Sundays, shouldn’t steal dead man rings, shouldn’t have premarital sex with french girls named Shana. Shouldn’t do a lot of things. 

Basically, Brendon Urie was going to Hell no matter what. 

So onto Ryan. Was Ryan Ross going to Hell? Didn’t have any markings on his skin. Ate pig though. Ate steak when he could get it. Ate shrimp a time or two. Did shrimp have scales? He held a grudge against his dad for dying. He marched on Sundays and carried heavy packs. Had sex once with a girl he loved. He stole a bible. The true holy irony of it all. Who could blame him though? Sometimes a man at war needed a little God in his cup. But that was certainly too many boxes checked. 

That settled it. Ryan and Brendon were going to Hell. 

Ryan continued flipping through the little book. Thinking about death and everything that came with it and that came before and after. 

There was a morning, seven months into their stay for Brendon and Ryan. Ten for Dan Pawlovich and one for Mike Naran. Mike was a real greenie at that time. It occurred to Ryan that Mike really hadn’t been in the war so long, had he? A little less than two years, maybe. Was that a long time? 

Time didn’t make so much sense to Ryan after a while. Days, weeks, months. Only a few stood out in memory. November 10, 1942. April 12. June 15, 1943. January 26, 1943. July 20, 1945. Christmas of ‘44. Most of those dates were marked in Mike’s baby bible; somewhere next to a verse that Ryan thought made sense more than the others. Dates and doodles and different ways to write his own name or someone else’s. 

He didn’t remember the date when he and the other guys talked about death. Sometime in ‘43 with greenie Mike Naran. A month into his stay. Probably November. Probably, but Ryan wasn’t sure. 

They all walked together quietly. Crunch went their boots on sticks and rocks. Crunch, crunch. Toy soldiers all in a line. Dan walked with them, although he didn’t share in their conversations. Instead, he listened quietly and waited for his turn to disagree. 

It was a long time since Brendon Urie killed a man. 

They walked across the dusty path and listened to the sounds the world provided. Boots against the dirt and the clink of rifles on their backs. Papers turned as a man behind them read through a pocket-sized bible that he held in one hand. 

Ryan hadn’t stolen Mike’s yet.

Mike—youngster that he was—kept kicking rocks when he saw them. How old was Mike then? Only two years younger than Ryan but he looked like a kid. Ryan was twenty-two that year. Brendon at twenty-one. Dan was the same age as Brendon but continued to find a way to make himself out to be some old man. Some mystical force that had years of experience beyond both Brendon and Ryan. What a prick. 

Mike sniffed and wiped his nose and kept talking his helmet off to swing it at his side. He was a quieter guy but he still took in on the fun of youth back then. Ryan envied youth. Envied the ignorance that came with it. 

Ryan tapped him on the shoulder with two fingers. An empty salute. The kid needed to stop flinging himself around. “Put your helmet on, Naran.”

Mike looked up at him, defiant like a son to a mother. “What for? Nothing’s happening.”

Ryan shrugged, glaring down at Mike. He was in no mood to play parent. “You never know.”

Mike grunted and started to fix the helmet atop his head before he paused, eyes caught on something at the edge of the path. He didn’t say anything as he broke away from the pack at a fast-paced jog to investigate it. Ryan opened his mouth to call after him but shut it quickly. He and Brendon—who was walking beside him, helmet lopsided on his dark hair—shared a look.

“Just like a puppy,” Ryan muttered through an aggravated sigh as he watched Mike skid to the edge of the path. As Ryan placed his hands on his hips and walked after the kid, he said, “Wish I had a leash for him. Or a bell, at least.”

Brendon laughed, keeping pace with Ryan. His hair hung down over his forehead as the helmet pressed it down. He sweat in the sun and it ran down the sides of his face like raindrops. “He’s definitely excited, I’ll give you that.”

“Gonna get himself killed running around like that,” Dan said loudly from behind the two and Ryan and Brendon turned to see him, their smiles fading fast. 

“Well aren’t you just a joy today, Dan,” Brendon observed, raising an eyebrow. He reached up a hand to fix his helmet, unhooking it from beneath his chin.

“Shouldn’t say stuff like that,” Ryan said to Dan. And he shouldn’t. Shouldn’t stay stuff like that in a place like this. Couldn’t joke about death in France. Ryan shifted the strap of his rifle on his shoulder and looked after Mike, worry starting to knit his brow together. “You’ll jinx it.”

Jinx _what_ exactly, he wasn’t quite sure. The ignorance, perhaps? The youth? Worried about jinxing life itself? There was a lot in war that Dan was liable to jinx if he kept joking about death. Ryan didn’t know what he was talking about explicitly. Just felt like the thing to say. 

Dan snorted loudly but he didn’t deny anything. 

Brendon glanced between the two before giving a short eye roll and waving a hand towards where Mike had disappeared off the path. “I’m following after him. The kid could get himself in some serious trouble if he gets lost out there.”

That was the truth. If Mike Naran got lost out there in big, bad France, Ryan and the others weren’t about to go looking for his sorry ass. If Mike Naran got lost in France, that was his own damn fault.

Ryan agreed without question and—though he looked bored with it—Dan went after Brendon and Ryan like a shadow. They let men continue to walk by them. 

One, which Ryan thought was Brent Wilson, had called out after them, “Pawlovich, where’re you going?”

Dan turned halfway to call back, “Just a few off the trail. The kid saw something.”

Concern from Wilson. “You need anyone else?”

“Nah, I’ve got enough.”

That was the first time Dan Pawlovich had placed any legitimate faith in Brendon or Ryan. It nearly made Ryan somewhat like him for a moment. Nearly. But that was it. You weren’t supposed to like men like Dan Pawlovich. 

Wilson waved to the three of them in understanding and proceeded to retreat back to the crowd. Dan, Ryan, and Brendon made their way over to Mike who had placed himself away from the path and deeper into the surrounding trees. 

“Mike—oh _shit_.”

Ryan skidded to a slow halt beside Mike, eyes directed straight down at his feet. Brendon and Dan stopped maybe a yard away, close enough to see the body splayed out at Mike and Ryan’s feet but not close enough to consider themselves a part of the scenario. They kept their distance. 

Cowards.

“I saw his watch,” Mike said absently, pointing a wobbly finger at the corpse’s hand. 

A watch hung across the limp palm. The other three men looked on in mock interest. They’d been there too long to find it odd. It seemed to dawn on Ryan then, that Mike hadn’t seen a dead man yet. Mike had barely been in combat at all and even then, he’d distanced himself from the dead. Never seen a dead man up close. Ryan watched him for a second, memorized the horror in Mike’s blue eyes and followed the gaze down. 

The man lay at an awkward angle like he’d been blown back off the side of the path into the brush. Weeds mangled up around his form. The stink was starting to ripen and his skin was sickly and pale, stretched too tight on his bones. A chunk of his torso on the front seemed to be missing and his jacket was pulled open. As if he’d been wounded and took off his jacket to inspect the harm. Tried to dig the bullet out with his nails. 

Ryan didn’t recognize his uniform. In fact, it hardly looked like a uniform at all. Just looked like some poor bastard that went out for a stroll and got a bullet to the gut instead.

Mike appeared as though he was about to be sick. 

Ryan blinked a few times and shared an attempted look of concern with Brendon and Dan who both had the same look on their face that said 'what do you expect us to do? Deal with it on your own'. 

Ryan scowled at them, hoping to let them know they were being pricks. He stared at Brendon, making it obvious that he didn’t know what exactly he was supposed to do. Brendon snickered a little, his teeth shiny and white behind his lips, and gestured with his head for Ryan to figure out a way. 

What a prick. Well and truly. What a prick. 

Ryan sent him back a glare that was only half-playful before turning back to Mike and the corpse, saying, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Naran.” 

He patted the kid on the back and Mike looked up at him, eyes still wide. “Is he dead?”

Dan let out a hacking laugh behind Ryan like he’d choked. “No, he just likes sleeping with his eyes open.”

“And looking like a skeleton,” Brendon added distastefully, grimacing. He had a hand on top of his helmet.

Ryan frowned uneasily although there was some humor to his eyes. Death was comical, after all, wasn’t it? Had to learn how to laugh at dead men in a place like this. “Yeah, Naran, he’s dead. Very, _very_ dead.”

Dan and Brendon laughed. Even Ryan had to let out a feeble chuckle. Mike couldn’t seem to find the humor in the ordeal. The kid looked more terrified than anything else. But Mike would get it soon enough. Eventually, after a year or so, he would understand the comedy in tragedy. 

“Hey, don’t sweat it, kid,” Dan offered after he was done laughing. “We all been there.”

“Been where?” Mike stared at him in disgust. 

“First body.” Dan bent down to take the watch from the corpse without a moment of remorse. He had to pull it a little to get the fingers to release. Mike watched with eyes the size of saucers as Dan pocketed the trinket and began patting down the body. Didn't seem to mind that it was a cadaver he was feeling up. “Fresh one too, this right here. Good catch, Naran. Still got a pack of smokes on him.”

He took the pack out and raised it to show the other men. 

“You wanna lend me a couple’a those?” Brendon wanted to know, obviously not caring too much about it being a dead man’s smokes. It didn’t bother Ryan though anymore what Brendon took from dead men. Their smokes, their rings. It was all the same. Wasn’t like a dead man could smoke. 

Dan didn’t even hesitate as he took out three cigarettes and handed them to Brendon. He kept the rest to himself. 

Brendon looked between the cigarettes and Dan and said, in a deadpan, “You can’t give me just three cigarettes, Dan.”

“Sure I can,” Dan said and he waggled the sticks in an offering. “Here.”

Brendon scowled but didn’t say anything as he took the three and pocketed them. He didn’t complain any further. You got smokes where you could get them. 

“My first dead man,” Dan started, beginning to walk back up the incline to the path. “Was this buddy of mine. Dumb bitch, that one. Kenneth Harris and he thought it was a great idea to go cliff hopping.”

“Cliff hopping?” Mike echoed with a sick look in his tired eyes. Ryan took him by the arm to lead him up the hill as well. Brendon was ahead of them, listening intently to Dan’s boots grind in the soft dirt of the slope. 

“Uh huh.” Dan nodded and took a heavy breath from his smoke, coughing out his words in a pursuit of grey. “See, we got this cave system or whatever in my town. Back home. Called Three Caves. Don’t know how best to describe it but it was this uh… big old cliff and all the guys and me—Kenny included—would climb up it with some rope and see how far you could get up the rocks. Real pretty place, this cave thing. All these big rocks and flowers and shit, right?”

“Sounds real pretty, Dan. Man’s gotta love his flowers,” Brendon chorused, sending a smirk to Ryan who had no trouble returning it. 

Dan rolled his eyes at the comment. “But uh, basically this one day, Kenny decides it’s a grand idea to climb up to the top—no rope ‘cause he thought he’d be real neat that way—further than anyone else had been before and we’re all looking up at him going ‘damn’ and I remember he looks down at us and shouts ‘hey! Look at this! I’m on top of the world!’ and then he falls.”

Dan slapped his hands together loudly for effect, causing Mike to jump and Brendon to scoff.

“Splat he goes,” Dan continued as though he was telling some grand story. “Crunches his back on one of the rocks at the bottom. Falling, falling, and _crunch_.”

“What’d you do?” Ryan wanted to know, genuinely curious. He'd never had a friend crunch their back on a rock at the bottom of a cave before. 

“Went over and looked at him o’course." Dan scratched at his scraggly beard. "Some idiot asked if he was still breathing and I had to tell him ‘that’s his spine right there ya gink, if he’s breathing right now, he won’t be for much longer’ and we had to go get the police and everything. I just remember thinking how neat the lights looked, flashing up the mountain. How the blood and the rocks glowed in that type of lighting, y’know?”

Mike didn’t look to be enjoying the story. His voice came out meek when he said, “You’re sick, man.”

“Just practical, m’friend.” Dan sent him a snarky smile. “Don’t act like you’re all so different. First thing you saw was his watch.”

And the first thing that Brendon Urie saw when he looked at dead men were their rings. And Ryan stole bibles; so none of them were different. They were all sick in one form or another. All of them just reducing people to their possessions. Reducing corpses who used to have lives to jewelry and full packs of smokes. 

“C’mon, Urie,” Dan said. “Tell him.”

Brendon cocked an eyebrow at Dan. “Tell him what?”

“Y’know,” Dan tried. 

“I don’t,” Brendon said. He played with the strap of his helmet and Ryan played with the one on his rifle.

Dan looked impatient. “First body, Urie. You remember yours; I know you do.”

Brendon laughed hesitantly, tapping a beat on the side of his helmet. He sent an uncomfortable peek at Ryan who sent him back nothing in return. If Brendon wasn't willing to help Ryan with the kid, then Ryan wasn't willing to help him with his first body. “I don’t know, Dan. I don’t have a story as good as yours. None of my friends were dumb enough to kill themselves.”

“First time you saw someone die,” Dan elaborated and he blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. 

“Oh uh…” Brendon licked at his lips thoughtfully. “First time I ever saw someone die… I wasn’t there for it when he hit the ground, but my pa did.”

“Your old man?” Ryan had asked in surprise. He never thought about Brendon being an orphan. 

“No,” Brendon had said and all the versions of Brendon's life that Ryan had quickly been creating in his imagination vanished. “My grandpa. He died back in… I wanna say it was ‘33-'34. I was eleven, I think. And I remember that he passed—couldn’t tell you why he did; some people just drop y'know—and we went to the funeral, my whole family and me.”

“Love a good funeral,” Dan said, smoking still.

Brendon, Ryan, and Mike stared at him, Brendon falling short on his tale. 

“What?” Dan asked, unfazed, taking his cigarette out of his mouth to hold it in dirt-stained fingers. “You ever think about how stupid a funeral is? Some party to celebrate someone who isn’t even there to see it. Plain dumb, I’m tellin’ you. I don’t want’a funeral if I die. Just want them to put me in the ground, plant a tombstone, and keep kicking on their own damn thing.”

“Some _party_ ,” Ryan repeated, as if a funeral could be that. 

“Plant a tombstone,” Mike mimicked, as if a tombstone was a flower; ripe and ready. 

“ _If_ you die?” Brendon stressed, which really _was_ just plain dumb.

The three of them laughed together and Dan scowled, folding his arms. 

“I’m just saying.” Dan huffed out a breath and fixed his cigarette back between his teeth to mutter around it. “Finish your damn story then, Urie. ‘Bout your dead pa or whatever. Tell us ‘bout your first body.”

Brendon let his laughter die down but his smile stayed upright on his face. Ryan loved the way he smiled. All shiny and inviting with those full lips and bumpy laugh. “Well, I remember that we went to Pa’s funeral. And they had this open casket, right? And, God, I was just itching to see inside. Wanted to know what a dead person looked like. So, my dad, he walked me over and said ‘have a look see, son’.”

“And?” Mike asked quietly, eyes round and large. 

“And it was a dead guy; what do you want me to say?” Brendon said back. 

Ryan and Dan laughed. 

“No but it was more the whole situation, y'know?” Brendon went on. “The funeral was awful, like you said Dan. My grandpa was a dancing sort of guy, so they played his favorite songs. Hired a band and everything, just to come play for some dead guy. And my mom, sobbing like a right fool, said—" Brendon mimicked in falsetto, the one that Ryan was impressed he could hit—"‘All he wanted was for you to dance. So please, now, just _dance_ for him’.”

“And?” Mike asked again, just as interested. 

“And no one danced,” Brendon said, back in his normal voice. Deep and tired. He picked at the dirt beneath his nails. “We all just stood around in the corner and listened to music we didn’t like and the women cried and the guys drank beer and talked about Baseball.”

Ryan didn’t take his gaze off of Brendon, who’s eyebrows were angled up over soft brown eyes and who’s smile had been overtaken by a deep frown. Not nearly as pretty.

“And _that’s_ why I don’t want a funeral,” Dan said, oblivious to Brendon’s blooming discontentment. “Plain dumb.”

“I want a funeral,” Brendon said back thoughtfully, voice lowered. “I just hope people dance at mine.”

There was a lapse in the conversation before Dan finally placed his demon eyes on Ryan. “And you, Ross?”

“No, I’m alright, thanks,” Ryan said perhaps a little too quickly. A little too evasive. “Not a big storyteller.”

“Oh! Well, avoidance only means a better story. They always avoid telling the good stories,” Dan teased, grinning and blowing smoke in tandem. “Now we _gotta_ know.”

“Don’t remember any first body, sorry.” Ryan shrugged in what he hoped was a casual gesture. “No story.”

“God, you’re boring.” Dan yawned; quick to give up, which Ryan was thankful for. He could see Brendon staring at him from the corner of his eyes. Sweaty hair pinned to his forehead and big brown eyes, eyebrows angled up and smile since faded. His lips looked a little too big on his face when he frowned. Not in a bad way. Nothing about Brendon's face was bad. Just made him look a little too much like a dame. A little too attractive when he frowned like that.

“Anything at all then?” Mike asked, still in the mood for story time. “Something, anything?”

“No first body,” Ryan answered, tearing his eyes off Brendon and his feminine features. 

“No first body?” Dan repeated, thoroughly alarmed. “How the hell can you have no first body; where’ve you been the last few months, Ross? ‘Cause if there’s a hideout from war that I don’t know about and you haven’t actually been here, tell me please. I could stand to take a vacation.”

Ryan opened his mouth and—just as he was about to say something—he caught Brendon’s gaze again. Big, imploring, brown eyes and puffy lips. Those eyes knew what he was about to say. Ryan promptly shut his mouth and shook his head. 

“Sorry,” Ryan said, much to Dan and Mike’s disappointment, making sure that he didn’t look at Brendon too closely. “No body.”

“You bore me, Ryan Ross,” Dan Pawlovich said. " _Bore_."

“I have that effect,” Ryan said back calmly. 

Dan clambered back up to the path and Mike followed him like a puppy following its owner. The two melded back into the crowd. Ryan didn’t say anything as he too went to become one with the pack. However, before he could properly do so, someone caught him roughly by the arm. 

Ryan turned back to see Brendon staring at him. Those imploring eyes had gone hard and his lips had turned themselves to a tight grimace. Not as feminine. That was good. Not as alluring. 

“What?” Ryan asked. 

“Why didn’t you tell them?” Brendon had a sharp edge to his voice. 

Ryan let his arm slip from Brendon’s grasp. “About the guy?”

Brendon nodded stiffly. 

“Do they know you did it?” Ryan asked, trying to keep his voice as plain as possible. 

“Probably. Isn’t like Dan hasn’t done the same thing.” Ryan didn’t know why Brendon was trying to relate himself to Dan. He and Dan couldn’t have been more different. “More times than I could count, I bet.” 

“Okay,” Ryan said, unblinking.

“So why didn’t you tell them? That’s what you were thinking about, I know it is. That’s the first time you saw a dead man, isn’t it? That’s your first body?”

“Yeah,” Ryan answered. “It is.”

“So why didn’t you tell them?”

Ryan shrugged. “Not my story to tell, is it?”

And he turned without another word and wandered back up to the path, away from Brendon’s imploring gaze.

Ryan wondered, as he sat on Brendon Urie’s couch more than two years later, if Brendon had wanted him to tell that story. If he had _wanted_ Ryan to tell Dan that he saw Brendon kill a man. Scar Mike Naran even worse. 

And frankly, Ryan didn’t _know_ why he hadn’t told that story. Maybe just the way Brendon had been looking at him. Those eyes and those lips. That probably wasn't it. It was most likely something else. Some other answer he had just forgotten. Ryan wasn’t sure. 

He thumbed at the bible, through the doodles and the detailed drawings of eyes. Brown imploring ones. Soft curves drawn on the page that, if continued, could take the form of full lips. And scratchings of words Brendon Urie had said to him. A doodle of a dead man ring. The more Ryan flipped through it, the less it was just a baby bible and the more it was a dedication to Brendon Urie. 

Ryan could hear a key jiggling in the lock of Brendon’s front door and raised his head instantly. Half of him meant to hide the bible before Brendon entered, so he wouldn’t see it, but never got enough time as Brendon tugged the door open. 

He still had a cigarette balanced in his mouth. 

“Hey,” Ryan said on command, without even thinking about it. He closed the bible slowly and held it shut with one hand.

Brendon stopped abruptly in front of the door, seemingly surprised that Ryan was still there. He answered absently, sounding almost far away, taking the cigarette from his mouth. It looked like it was freshly lit. “Hey, Ryan.”

There was something off in the way he looked at Ryan. Something about the way he rolled the cigarette between his pointer and thumb. How his eyes darted away to another corner of the house. As if searching for a means of escape if he needed to run. He was in the same clothes and when he stood by the door, upright, Ryan almost thought he appeared tall. Brendon ran a hand back through his hair, raking lines in it.

“What’re you still doing up?” Brendon asked, stepping further into the house and kicking the door closed behind him. “It’s going on three in the morning; you should be asleep.”

“I slept this afternoon,” Ryan returned, smiling slightly. He shifted the pillow he had in his lap, pulling it up against his chest.

Brendon shook his head, placing the cigarette back into his mouth and taking a puff. He glanced around the house, darting his eyes over every curve of the wood, every divot in his floor, and uneven splotch of paint on his walls. He pushed off his shoes with his feet. 

Ryan watched him do it. The way Brendon acted when he came home from work. Ryan asked, “How was singing?”

Brendon looked down, breathing out some smoke and rolling the cigarette between his fingers. “It was uh… _good_. It was good.”

“Good to hear,” Ryan said.

“Uh huh.” Brendon didn't sound so sure about what he'd said. Sounded like he had something in his throat. 

Brendon pushed his shoes up against the door. His hair was pressed back and Ryan figured he’d been sweating with the exertion of performance. The other man glistened in the light of the apartment, a haze of smoke surrounding him. Domestic bliss. 

“You talk to that Dallon guy?” Ryan asked, hopeful.

Brendon coughed on smoke. “Oh I—No, I never… I never got the chance; sorry.”

“Oh.” Ryan nodded. He tried his best not to show his disappointment. “Well, it’s alright. You’ll see him tomorrow; could ask him then.”

“Today, technically,” Brendon said, straightening up. He still wasn’t looking at Ryan but at his empty oxfords on the floor. “I was actually gonna see him before the next show. I was thinking that might give you an opportunity to go sightseeing.”

“Sightseeing?” Ryan repeated, frowning. 

“Sure.” Brendon turned around. “Go look for something to keep you occupied while I’m gone. How long… how long are you staying again?”

Ryan stared at him, immediately saying, “I told you I’m alright to stay at a hotel if—”

“You’re staying here,” Brendon said firmly as he walked forward in the room. He seemed to be tired of having the same conversation and Ryan told himself that he wouldn't try and bring it up again. “Stop trying to get out of that. I’m just saying maybe you should look for some sort of job, I don’t know.”

Ryan blinked. A job? Get a job in Clearfield? That would imply he was staying longer than just a visit. And he wasn’t. He was _just_ visiting. But still, he found himself saying, “A job might be good.”

“Yeah.” Brendon took a small breath and looked to Ryan’s hands, still holding the baby bible. His eyes went slightly big—everything about jobs and sightseeing completely wiping itself from his mind—and he said, “You found it.”

Ryan nodded, holding the bible up to show it off. He made sure to keep it closed. “Yeah. Told you it was in my pack. Must’ve set it down wrong though. Messed the damn thing up.”

“That’s too bad,” Brendon said and there was something teasing about it. “I know how much you love that baby bible.”

Ryan chuckled in tune and Brendon came over to sit on the couch with him, pivoting his body so they were both facing each other, legs folded beneath themselves instead of actually sitting normally on the couch. Brendon had on socks and Ryan’s bare feet almost touched them. He shifted a little to make sure Brendon and he didn’t make contact. 

Brendon reached out to touch the bible’s cover, rubbing his finger over it a little too kindly for Ryan’s liking. A little too soft. “Doesn’t look bad to me.”

Ryan pulled it back from Brendon gently to keep it close. He moved the pillow around in his lap, keeping it pressed tight to his stomach. He tried not to make it obvious that he didn't want Brendon to see inside. See the dates and the drawings. Granted, Brendon probably wouldn't be able to deduce that they were all about him. Those eyes and lips could easily belong to Z. Maybe they did. Maybe Ryan was playing himself. That's what it was. It was about his girlfriend. That's who the bible was about. Not Brendon. 

“Besides,” Brendon said and Ryan was drawn back to look at him, sweaty and smiling, cigarette in tow. “Not like you were expecting it to be in mint condition.”

“Eh. Just wish it wasn’t so bent out of shape, y’know,” Ryan said, turning it over. He stared at the leather cover. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Could feel it through his blood. “Mike’d be mad as hell if he knew how bad I was treating his bible.”

Brendon laughed. It sounded good to Ryan's ears. 

“And all those guys; I bet they’d be pissed if they knew you stashed their rings away,” Ryan said, looking up at Brendon, smoking on the couch. It wasn't a change in subject. That's not what it was. Ryan was not trying to change the subject from the bible because he was scared of Brendon looking inside. He just wanted to talk about rings. 

“I didn’t stash them away,” Brendon protested, taking a drag. 

“You aren’t wearing them are you?” Ryan bobbed his head to Brendon’s naked hands and—for effect—Brendon turned them over and showed them to Ryan. His fingers were long and his nails cleaned. The muscles in his hands strained against the skin and Ryan could trace a vein down Brendon’s forearm with his peering eyes. Could see the crescent shape of a dog bite on the back of Brendon's left hand. 

“No, but I have them,” Brendon said around a cigarette, looking across his own hands with the same sort of interest that Ryan had for them. 

“Stashed away," Ryan repeated.

“No. Not stashed away.” Brendon started to stand from the couch and Ryan worried that he had said something upsetting enough for Brendon to up and leave. Although, it wasn’t long before Brendon came back, a fist balled up. He must have thrown his cigarette out too because it was no longer fixed between his lips. He brandished the closed fist at Ryan, saying, “See? Not stashed away.”

He sat back on the couch and Ryan leaned over to look at what he was trying to show. Brendon’s palm opened up to reveal a handful of wedding rings. Dead man rings.

“Well?” Ryan asked, dipping his head to them. “They still fit?”

“It’s been a week, Ryan,” Brendon said with a fleeting grin as he started to slide them onto different fingers for the fun of it. His eyes were childish as he looked on them. An intense excitement as he did so. Something about dead man rings was just so entrancing. Enough to make a grown man giddy. “I don’t think they’ve shrunk since then.”

“Maybe your fingers have gotten fatter,” Ryan suggested, watching as Brendon fit each ring to an according finger. 

One on his pinkie. Skipped his wedding finger. That was saved for someone special. Two on the middle and one on the pointer. On the other hand he fit one on his pinkie and on the ring finger of that hand. He paused, disliking of the arrangement and began to fix them in different sets and patterns. 

“Why not just wear all fourteen?” Ryan asked. 

Brendon chuckled. “Might be a bit much, don’t you think?”

“Never too much.” Not for Brendon Urie. He could wear all the rings he wanted and they would still find a way to look good on him. 

Brendon toyed with a small one for a while before showing it to Ryan. He said, “I already have too many.”

“Alright,” Ryan said back, not exactly understanding what that meant. 

“Take this one; it’s too small for me.” Brendon held out the small wedding ring to Ryan and he blinked in surprise. Looked up to see if Brendon was serious. Raked-through hair and raindrops of sweat down the side of his face. Imploring brown eyes and a full-lipped smile. 

Ryan said slowly, just to make sure he wasn't missing something, “You’re trying to give me a wedding ring?”

“All you have to do is say yes,” Brendon teased and his smile was plain on his face. His imploring eyes flashed. 

“I’m not a broad, Bren,” Ryan said as he took the ring from Brendon’s hand and held it, turning it over and feeling it up with his own fingers. It felt foreign to the touch. “And I don’t wear dead man rings.”

Brendon didn’t say anything. Just went back to fixing his own rings before taking them off and rearranging. One ring on each pinkie and one on his ring finger. That was enough wedding rings for Brendon Urie. He took the two he had left and placed them in his breast pocket. Examined the final product. 

“Not bad on you,” Ryan said, surveying over Brendon's ring-adorned fingers. Over the crescent shape of a dog bite and the vein that traced up his arm and disappeared in the sleeve of his seersucker shirt. “But I’m not wearing a dead man ring.”

“You don’t have to,” Brendon said and held out his hand for it in return. “Just didn’t wanna wear so many s’all. I’ll take it back.”

Suddenly, Ryan regretted declining. 

He looked down at his hands. At the ring. Slid it on to his middle finger and examined it for a minute. His fingers were too bony and thin for rings; it looked bad on him. Ryan Ross didn't look nearly as nice as Brendon Urie did in dead man rings. 

In protest, Ryan turned the hand up to Brendon and flipped him off.

Brendon laughed like it was funny and Ryan couldn’t help but smile, pulling his hand back to himself and pulling the ring off.

“Doesn’t look good on me,” Ryan said as he reluctantly handed the ring back over to Brendon. Brendon took it without hesitation, putting it in the same pocket as the others he wasn’t wearing. The created little rises in his breast pocket; three circles beneath his shirt. “More your drift.”

Brendon smiled at him. What a nice smile he had. And suddenly the man in front of Ryan wasn’t Brendon Urie who lived in Clearfield, Utah in a one bedroom apartment and sang jazz during the nights. This was Brendon Urie who sat shirtless on the side of a creek and made wishes on dead man rings and killed some guy in Normandy. Not smooth, clean Brendon Urie who smoked while smiling. This was the man that sat in the rain and smoked soggy cigarettes when he cried and kept blood in his hair because he was too busy marching to wipe it out. That wasn't home-life Brendon Urie, this was war. 

Two very different people. 

And if Ryan Ross liked boys, he knew he could fall in love with both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3
> 
>  
> 
> Also, this bad boy is long. 7470 words in one chapter. Whoops.


	18. That Caring Way

Brendon’s lips buzzed with the afterglow of affection. Practically burning with the aftertaste. He could still discern the hint Gin Rickey on his tongue and could feel the ghost of Dallon’s hand against the side of his neck. He'd had bigger hands and they had sat against Brendon's neck and the side of his face, still managing to curl fingers in his hair. Practically enveloped him whole. That being said though, Dallon was a good kisser. A damn good kisser. Brendon had known people that could kiss better than him, a few at least, but Dallon was certainly compelling. Brendon always assumed he would be but… the real thing was certainly different than idle thoughts. 

He’d be willing to kiss Dallon again. Without a doubt, he would. 

And he figured Dallon would be pretty excited to kiss him too. Brendon _knew_ he was a good kisser. He'd gotten enough praise in the past to be aware of that. And the way Dallon's eyes had stayed shut, the way his breathing had shuddered when he exhaled; Brendon knew. After all, Dallon invited him over to his house before going to The Church for the next night. Granted, that could mean a lot of things. Brendon had dinner with Dallon almost every day before the kissing incident. And it was an incident; definitely, it was. Brendon had gone in there ready to say no. No, no, no. And it hadn't gone down that way at all. So the kissing was all a bit of a disaster. A disaster that tasted of Gin Rickey and felt good on his lips, granted, but a disaster all the same. 

But going to Dallon's house wouldn’t be any different than any time before. 

He and Dallon would be the same sort of friends they always were, crack the same jokes and laugh the same laughs and watch the same shows and eat the same food together, with just one little exception. Now they would just be friends that kissed in closets at gay bars.

That wasn't so odd, now was it?

Brendon's lips buzzed and he could feel the sweat dripping from his hair down the side of his face and his neck. 

Oh, it was painfully odd. 

Brendon could see Ryan smiling at him across the couch. Brendon’s lips tingled and he wished he could stop the sweating. He didn't want Ryan to notice the way he was fidgeting. 

Friends that kissed. Yep. That’s what Dallon and he were. Friends that kissed. That could happen. That happened all the time. Friends that kissed. 

Brendon fixed the rings on his fingers. He wouldn’t lie, they felt right there. He’d honestly missed the way they squeezed his fingers. Pinched his flesh in certain areas because they weren’t meant for his hands. Weren't manufactured for his boney fingers. They were all simple enough, little silver or gold bands. Although, some had engravings along the sides. Not words but little vine-like patterns or loops and curls. Just a little something to make them beautiful. 

Only two rings had words carved in them though. One of them had the age-old _Love_ inscribed on the inside of it. Brendon didn’t mind that so much. He wasn't all that enticed by it, but he didn't dislike it. It's just that it wasn’t beautiful or poetic. It was simple. Straight to the point. But that’s really all love needed to be. Right down to it. 

The other ring had a little more. It read; _Your Heart is Mine_. That was a little more than ‘love’. A lot more, actually. Not the simple, ‘My Heart is Yours’. No, no, no. This was a different way to say something. ‘My Heart is Yours’ was so passive, so willing to be betrayed. Making love out to be something sweet, something subtle and kind. _Your Heart is Mine._ Now that was different. Very, very different. A ring from a whole other world, a whole other definition of love. Made the act out to be some sort of possession. Some sort of overpowering force. 

The passive and the aggressor, Brendon supposed. A heart you were giving away and a heart that was being taken from you. 

Brendon wasn’t sure which one he preferred. He couldn’t say that he would enjoy tugging off his wedding ring for a clean every now and then and seeing someone’s words trying to claim him scrawled on the inside. Didn't like the idea of being 'claimed'. He might as well get 'mine' carved into a ring in Dallon's handwriting if he were to wear a ring that said _Your Heart is Mine_. Funny though, he wasn't taking it off. He'd chosen three rings to wear, three abandoned in his pocket. And _Your Heart is Mine_ was one of them. So maybe he liked the ring more than he was willing to admit. 

He looked up at Ryan Ross who was smiling at him gently. A small smile. A passive smile. 

Brendon knew which ring that boy would prefer. 

Would Ryan Ross ever wear a ring; he'd turned down the one Brendon had handed over? Did Ryan even want to get married? Maybe he wanted to marry Z and didn’t because she had gone off with someone else. That would be sad. What if he'd planned on marrying her? Didn't propose because he was worried he'd die in the war and didn't want her to be a widow. That would be rather valiant, wouldn't it? Maybe Ryan had wanted to wait until he returned. But Z hadn't waited for him. She'd gone off with someone else. Brendon wondered if she'd broken Ryan's heart. 

But he also wondered if Ryan wanted that sort of thing at all. The apple-pie-life with a mangy dog and ratty kids and a beautiful woman to clean house and cook dinner. If Ryan was dull enough to want something like that. 

Dallon Weekes and Ryan Ross were such simple boys, weren’t they? Far too sweet for someone like Brendon. He wondered if they knew it too. 

If Ryan knew how small and sweet he appeared sitting there on Brendon’s couch, all tight suspenders and dress pants but barefoot and tousled hair; a pillow pulled up to his chest and a baby bible balanced on it. So young. Too much so. Funny that. How youthful Ryan looked when he was a year senior to Brendon. Maybe it was just the way he ducked his head when he smiled. The way the only thing he could think to steal was a baby bible. 

“Do you sing every night?” Ryan asked suddenly and Brendon tilted his head.

“Yeah.” He did. Sang every single night for the past week and a half. Unpaid. 

“How much does it pay?”

Brendon laughed awkwardly and twisted one of the rings around his finger. He had on three. One that had a vine pattern around its side, one that said _Love_ and another that said _Your Heart is Mine_. “Doesn’t pay any.”

Ryan’s eyes went slightly large and he held his baby bible close. “Not a dime?”

Brendon shook his head. He hummed. “Not a dime.”

“What for?” Ryan seemed perplexed. “Shouldn’t you be making a fortune singing Sinatra songs? Seems like he makes all the money in the world. Rolling in money. You’ve got the voice for it, why aren't you? You could be famous if you tried, I bet.” 

Brendon didn’t know why that compliment meant to so much to him. Something about it coming from Ryan’s soft smile made his heart beat oddly in his chest. Made his cheeks feel hot. Made his lips buzz more. The way Ryan said those words had the same sound as to when Dallon had said ‘I wanted to kiss you’ when they were in the closet. Brendon wasn’t sure why exactly. They just sounded the same. Not that they meant the same things in the slightest, Brendon knew they didn’t. 

'I wanted to kiss you' from Dallon Weeke's mouth did not mean the same thing as 'you've got the voice for it' from Ryan's. 

“I sorta…” Brendon trailed off. “Well, I’m singing for free right now.”

“What for?” 

“See… I made this deal with the owner that I’d sing two weeks free if he…” Brendon trailed off, staring at Ryan. The root of all his financial problems it seemed. Ryan Ross and a napkin were the reasons Brendon wasn't making a dime singing. Not that he could blame Ryan for that; he couldn't. Ryan wasn't the one that got so drunk he couldn't stand. 

Did Brendon really want to tell him why? That might be a little strange. 

Looking at Ryan and that sweet smile straight on and saying ‘Well, here’s the thing, Ry. Funny story. Don't laugh, now. The first night I sang I was completely out of it—so unbelievably out of it—and I wrote this note on a napkin that was addressed to you and then I told my sort-of-boss, this bastard by the name of Jon Walker, that if he mailed it for me, I’d sing at his bar for two weeks free. But I would just like for you to keep in mind that I really only did all this because I was just so, absolutely, _wasted_.’ 

“If what?” Ryan prompted. He'd tilted his own head and he looked at Brendon like he was a puppy begging to be kicked again. The bruises on his face proved it had already happened once before. 

“If he sent you the note,” Brendon said back and tried not to make it sound too fast or forced. Not too hurried. "About Nowhere."

Ryan poked himself in the chest. “To me?”

So surprised. Brendon had to crack a smile, chuckling to himself. He twisted the ring that said _Your Heart is Mine_ on his finger. It was pinching his skin. “Yeah, Ry. To you. Said if he sent the letter to you, I’d sing free.”

Ryan stared at him. What was that expression on his face? Brendon couldn’t quite read it. Round whiskey eyes, lips parted into a soft ‘o’ of bewilderment. So young looking with a couch pillow to his chest, placed in his lap, and a baby bible on top of that.

“But it’s about a week and a half up now," Brendon went on. "Just a little while longer of this and I’ll be singing for money.”

Ryan shook his head so as to rid his face of the expression Brendon couldn't read and then nodded. “Yeah. People’d pay good money to hear you sing.”

Again with the compliments. He was too kind, Ryan Ross. That could be a problem. Kind people didn’t make it so far in the world. And Brendon’s eyes were drawn back to the bruising on Ryan’s face. The bandages around his hands and the split on his cheek and the cut on the side of his head. The world beat kind people down. Ryan Ross was living proof. He needed to learn that. 

“Uh huh,” Brendon nodded. He couldn't distract his gaze from Ryan's injuries. Trying to gauge how long it would take them to heal. What Ryan would look like when they did. All suspenders and clean face, carrying his bible around and flashing that nervous smile and shatter-me eyes wherever he went. Oh, he'd be merciless. 

Ryan asked, “Everything you wanted?”

“And more,” Brendon answered honestly. He averted his eyes from the bruised eye and back to Ryan's good once. It stared at him imploringly. “I love it. It’s like breathing up there. Some things feel right, y’know? That’s one of them.”

Ryan smiled. “I’m really glad to hear that, Bren.”

And he sounded as though he really _was_ happy for Brendon. It made Brendon feel slightly uncomfortable, all this love and affection lately. Dallon Weekes wanting to kiss him. Ryan Ross wanting to care. It hadn’t been like this before the war. It had barely been like this during. Sure, Ryan was a nice guy. A great guy. Really, truly. At times, almost too good. And he had always cared about Brendon. Always followed him around with that lost puppy look. Patched Brendon up when he needed help. Lent him a smoke when his eyes watered. 

Why did they care so much about him, Dallon and Ryan? Brendon still couldn’t quite piece that one together. He didn’t need them to care. He never had. Maybe he should tell Ryan that. _It’s not on you to care about me. I’m not that important._ He wondered what Ryan would say to that. And frankly, the curiosity alone was almost enough for him to ask out loud but Ryan spoke his own thoughts before Brendon could get it out. 

“I still wanna hear you sing,” Ryan said in a faraway voice. He picked at the edge of his baby bible in his lap. Had his head cocked to the side, not moving his eyes from one part of Brendon’s face. Never let them leave his eyes. Such caring eyes.

Brendon chuckled feebly before he realized that Ryan’s look on him was completely serious. He coughed a little in the back of his throat and covered his mouth with a fist. He shouldn’t have smoked so much. Felt like his lungs were filled to the bursting point with fog. “Do you mean now?”

“You got other plans?” Ryan asked quietly and he smiled that caring smile. One that was far too genuine, far too interested in Brendon. Ryan wanted to hear him sing. Properly. And not in the bar, when there was music and other people around. Only when there was Brendon and his voice alone. Ryan wanted to hear _Brendon_.

That shouldn’t have been as intimidating as it was. 

Singing was like breathing. Brendon had to remind himself of that. Just breathing. Why was it so hard to breathe when Ryan was around? 

“I guess I don’t.” Brendon laughed a little to himself. He shifted around on the couch, folding his hands in his lap. The rings of separate fingers made small clicks against one another. _Love_ and _Your Heart is Mine_ battling it out over which declaration of affection was the best. “What d’you wanna hear?”

“What d’you wanna sing?” Ryan replied, still smiling that dopey of smile his. It was even worse looking because of his bruises. The way that when he smiled his swollen eye squinted shut and the cut on his cheek crinkled. Sad. Sad, sad caring boy. He needed to learn not to care. The world didn't care about him, it didn't. Why did he care for it?

“Don’t know," Brendon said. "You got anything in mind?” 

Ryan shrugged. “Not really, no. Haven’t given it a lot of thought.”

Brendon stared at Ryan for a second before he decided, “I sing ‘I’ve Got the World on a String’ quite a bit down at The uh… the Walk of Shame; if you like that one.”

“Really?” Ryan asked and he frowned slightly. “Is that the Armstrong song?”

“‘ _The_ Armstrong Song’,” Brendon repeated mockingly. “It’s _an_ Armstrong song.”

“Well holy cow, Bren, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize Armstrong was such a sore subject for you,” Ryan teased, mockingly apologetic. He waited for Brendon to snort a laugh, which he did, before he said, “But yeah. Yeah, I know the song.” 

“You like it?” Brendon wanted to know. It mattered if Ryan liked it. Brendon didn't want to sing a song he didn't like. 

Ryan smiled that all too caring smile at him, shatter-me whiskey eyes brightened so much the bruise was hardly noticeable around one of them. “I’m sure I’ll like it when you sing it.”

That comment should not have made Brendon’s skin feel as flushed as it did; itchy and upsetting. Should not have made his lips burn and the sweat down his neck feel so hot. Ryan Ross should _not_ be making him feel this way. This utterly ridiculous. How did he do that? Brendon needed to learn the skill. How to ruin a man just by smiling and looking small. Just by asking to be broken.

Ryan batted his eyes, thick eyelashes over his yellowish and blue skin. He asked, dipping his head to Brendon in a gesture to keep going, “So? How’s it go?”

“Oh.” Brendon stiffened, sitting up taller. “You want me to si— _Now_? You want me to sing it right now?” 

Ryan pulled a confused face and he rubbed a page of the baby bible between his fingers absently. Brendon only watched the movement for a moment before his eyes went back up to Ryan’s face. Ryan answered incredulously as if Brendon should know by now, “Yeah. I do.”

“Oh,” Brendon repeated. “Well—”

“C’mon,” Ryan said through a small laugh. “I’ve heard you sing before.”

That was true. That was one hundred percent accurate. This time shouldn't have been any different than any other. Why was this time so different? Why was the thought of Brendon singing to Ryan so daunting this specific time? It shouldn’t have been. It never had been before. It was maybe just the way Ryan was looking at him. 

Ryan and he, they’d never been very different. Not really, anyway. 

Two men that enlisted to serve their country. Two men in war that took things that weren’t theirs. Just tried to get through the day with their head still on their shoulders. Not so different. Sure, there were a couple of things that differentiated the two. 

Brendon took rings off of corpses. Shot men and didn’t regret it. Smoked when he was nervous. Went to war to die. 

And what did Ryan Ross do? Took a baby bible. That was hardly evil. But he killed people. It was war; he had to have. He probably regretted it. That’s probably what kept him up at night. Kept him tossing and turning in Brendon’s bed. And Ryan didn’t smoke. And he didn’t go to war to die. 

Why had Ryan Ross gone to war? Brendon had never bothered to ask. Maybe he should. It might be a good answer. 

“Bren,” Ryan said. Practically pleading. Not his voice necessarily. But those shatter-me whiskey eyes? Begging. “‘World on a String.’ Sing it for me; would you?”

Brendon shook his head but found it in himself to smile as he squirmed. “I don’t sound that good.”

That was a lie. That was a blatant lie. Brendon knew he could sing. Just like he knew he could kiss. The world had told him so. Better than a lot of people. He’d said it to Jon himself. That’s why people came to The Church. Just to hear him sing. But as he looked at Ryan’s expectant gaze, he’d never felt less sure of that fact. 

It was just like the night before they left Nancy. When Ryan and he had sat on a hill and sang Sinatra together. It was the same. Wasn’t any different than it ever had been before.

“It’ll be a bit off,” Brendon protested again and Ryan snorted. “No really, I’ve been singing all night. It’ll be strained or something; my throat hurts.”

“Or something,” Ryan repeated. “Just sing, Bren. I don’t care how it sounds.”

That didn’t make much sense. Why wouldn’t he care how it sounded? That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Just have something nice to listen to. That’s all singing was supposed to be. Something to soothe your ears, make you bob your head or tap your feet. The background sound to dancing. 

Did Ryan dance? What sort of dancing did he do if he did? Do the jive or the shag? Did he waltz, perhaps? Was he good at waltzing? Did girls want to dance with him, let him hold them close? Or better yet, did _they_ hold _him_? Why did Brendon so desperately want to know? 

“You’re not allowed to laugh if I miss a note,” Brendon said quietly and he shifted, twisting rings around his fingers. _Your Heart is Mine_ or _Love_. Who would win? Depended on who you're fighting, Brendon supposed. They were a little too distracting. So easy to twist and play with. _Your Heart is Mine._ How odd was that?

“I won’t laugh.” So sincere. 

Brendon took a small breath and closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at Ryan. 

“ _I've got the world on a string, sittin' on a rainbow_.” 

That beginning was slightly off, a bit too deep for him. Not bad. Brendon couldn’t sing badly if he tried, but it was certainly off. Tilted in the direction of wrong. 

Ryan hummed quietly, under his breath, “Yeah, I know it.”

But he didn’t say any more than that and Brendon took that as a cue to go on, “ _Got the string around my finger. What a world, what a life, I'm in love. / I've got a song that I sing_.”

Ryan made another small sound, “Good song.”

Brendon laughed and it hiccuped the next verse and Ryan laughed too. “ _I can make the rain go, anytime I move my fing_ —I told you not to laugh.”

“I didn’t laugh because you messed up,” Ryan protested but he was still chuckling obnoxiously. “I said it sounds good s’all.”

Brendon snapped his eyes open, ready to reprimand Ryan for making fun at him but he stopped abruptly, the words again finding a way to trip up in his mouth. Damn his tongue. It needed to realize that seeing Ryan Ross was not reason enough to get twisted.

Ryan had closed his own eyes and let his eyebrows angle up, listening intently to whatever it was that was going to come out of Brendon’s mouth. He’d heard the song before. Why was he listening so intently, like it was all that mattered? This wasn't gospel. 

Brendon didn’t sing it any differently than anyone else did. But still, Ryan sat there across him on the couch, his grip slack around his baby bible and his lips just slightly puckered together. Brendon hated that for a fraction of a second he wondered how those lips differed in taste from Dallon’s. 

“ _Lucky me_ ,” Brendon sang a little softer. A little more gentle when Ryan was sitting there like that. You had to sing softly to someone like Ryan Ross and his baby bible. 

Ryan didn’t seem to notice the change in voice, however, and just kept listening with the same heed as previously. 

“ _Can't you see?_ ” Brendon asked him quietly, but Ryan had his eyes closed. “ _I'm in love_.”

The rest of the song tasted bitter on his tongue. Nothing like a Gin Rickey. All of it sounded slightly off when he sang. All but those three short lines. And, God, did he hate himself for it. Hated Ryan too. Why couldn’t he just sing the damn song right? Just like ‘Paper Dolls’ the other night. He should know how to sing those songs. They didn’t hold any more significance than any other. 

But he realized, the songs weren’t the problem. He could sing any song he wanted to perfectly. Just so long as he didn’t have Ryan Ross on the brain. Yep. It was definite. The songs weren’t the problem. Ryan Ross was. 

“ _Man this is the life_ ,” Brendon sang and it sounded too spoken. Too exaggerated. Like he was hiding something. “ _And now I'm so in love_.”

The last note was in the wrong key. It was definitely in the wrong key. It was all wrong actually. The whole thing had been. He shouldn’t have sung for Ryan. Shouldn’t have given him the benefit of a private show. 

Brendon stopped. Let the note fade off and shut his mouth. Sat stiff on his own couch with his legs folded beneath him and his hands in his lap. Across from him sat Ryan Ross, crosslegged with a pillow and a baby bible in his. His eyes were still closed and his lips were still pouting just so. He still looked too damn small.

“Alright,” Brendon blurted because he couldn’t stand the silence that had enveloped them. “I’m done. That’s it. I'm done.”

Ryan took that as a command to open his eyes. Let them flutter open, shiny, shatter-me irises revealed to Brendon as he shifted back, sitting up more too. They had to look at least a little professional. Couldn’t have two men leaned forward on a couch with one’s eyes closed while the other sang a love song. That just wouldn’t work. 

Brendon swallowed nervously. He wanted Ryan to say something. At least about how it sounded. He knew it hadn’t been his best. Could Ryan tell that? He was desperate to know. But Brendon didn’t try to prompt him. Didn’t ask any questions. Just sat in silence on the couch, waiting for Ryan to speak first. 

He couldn't stop twisting his rings around on his fingers. 

“That was good,” Ryan said. He nodded a little, contemplative of what he was going to say next. Like he wasn’t quite sure. “That was real good, Bren. They must love you down there.”

Brendon just nodded. Did they love him there? Not particularly. Jon Walker had said it himself, he wanted to ruin Brendon Urie. Reveled in the torture he dished out. Dallon enjoyed his singing of course; Brendon knew that he did. And Ryan liked it, apparently. So that’s all that really mattered. Just so long as Dallon Weekes and Ryan Ross smiled when he sang. That's all he wanted.

“What time is it?” Ryan glanced around and Brendon looked up as well to the clock that hung on his wall. He wished they hadn't moved on so quickly from the song but Ryan seemed eager to change the subject. Had Brendon really been so bad?

“It’s four now,” Brendon answered. Four A.M. and he hadn’t slept the night before. A quick nap during the afternoon, but that was it. Still though, strangely, he wasn’t tired. “Why? Past your bedtime?”

Ryan laughed, not removing his eyes from the clock as he shook his head. “No. Never felt so awake in my life.”

Brendon took a moment and asked, “You don’t sleep a lot, do you?”

He shrugged. “Not any less than anyone else. Why?”

“I’m just asking.”

Ryan turned back to face him again, brows furrowed but he didn’t say anything. 

“I just—” Brendon tried to find the words. “Some guys struggle or whatever with sleeping... After.” 

He didn’t exactly know why he wanted to bring it up. Just seemed to be the words spilling from his mouth. He couldn’t stop them. But he wanted to know. What ghosts haunted Ryan Ross? 

“I mean,” Brendon went on when Ryan continued not to speak. “You… hear all these stories about guys that…. Y’know. Blow their brains out the moment they get away. Can’t take the silence.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “No. I’ve never—I don’t think about that sorta thing.”

That wasn’t very convincing. 

Brendon frowned and opened his mouth to go on before Ryan spoke abruptly, eyes continuing to grow bigger. “You don’t, do you?”

“Don’t what?” Brendon asked. 

“Think about that sorta thing?”

Brendon asked, alarmed, “Killing myself?”

Ryan noticeably tensed, his eyes staying that same wide way. Too caring. So worried about what Brendon thought about life and death. 

“No, Ryan,” Brendon said sternly. Partially honest. “I don’t think about that type of thing. I’ve never—no. Absolutely not, no.”

But that was a lie. That was such a lie. Why couldn't Brendon tell the truth? That was the whole point of the war. Wasn’t that funny? Brendon went to war just to kill himself, didn’t die, and now that he was gone from it, his friend was asking about his mental health. He was fine now. Really, he was. Sort of. Vaguely fine. 

Brendon wondered what Ryan would have thought of him outside of war. Before. Was that Brendon a person Ryan would like? Who was Ryan Ross before the war? Who was he after? Brendon was still trying to figure it out. 

And frankly, it looked as though Ryan was too. 

“Why’d you ask then?” Ryan seemed distressed, restlessly playing with his bible again. It was starting to irritate Brendon to a certain extent and a small portion of him wanted to snatch the bible away. 

“Just a question Ryan,” Brendon answered, raising his hands in surrender.

Ryan glowered. “You can’t just say things like that, Bren. Talk about killing yourself like it’s nothing. Can’t just say you know guys kill themselves and then hop on by it. Can’t just dangle death like a carrot on a stick.”

Brendon rolled his eyes hard in his skull. Ryan Ross, a thespian it seemed. “I’m not… dangling death. I’m just saying what I know. Life. Death. Similar.”

“How?” Ryan asked, his irritation plain and Brendon didn’t understand why Ryan was irritated. He was the one that should be irritated. And he was steadily nearing that point. 

“Live. Die. All the same, isn’t it?” Brendon folded his arms, staring at Ryan. He repeated with more conviction, daring, “Isn’t it?”

“Can’t compare.” Ryan grimaced, rubbing across the cover of the bible with his thumb and the touch was much more tender than it had been. “Never been dead before.”

“Well, I haven’t either.” Brendon watched Ryan caress the bible with as much care as he would touch a living thing. “Just can’t imagine it being all that different.”

“Did you ever think you were gonna?” Ryan asked and his eyes were planted on the bible. 

“What?” Brendon asked. “Die, you mean?”

Ryan nodded. _Did I ever think I was going to die?_ Brendon’s brain repeated to itself. 

“No,” he said. _But I wanted to._ “Did you?”

Ryan shrugged. “I dunno. Yeah. I guess I did. I always thought that—I don’t know. I worried that—There’s a lot of chances to die out there. I guess I did. Guess I thought I was gonna die. Lot of chances.”

Brendon nodded slowly. There were, weren’t there? “Guess we’re some lucky bastards, huh?”

Ryan laughed and looked up. Those whiskey eyes were bright again and Brendon loved that smile. “Guess so.” 

Brendon hadn’t really given it so much thought. How lucky they were. Lucky to get out of there in one piece. Ryan and he, Ryan and Brendon, they were the lucky ones. Weren’t they? Hadn’t been shot through the head, the stomach, the chest, not the leg or arm. Ryan and Brendon were home free. Their scars weren’t deep ugly gashes in their stomachs so their intestines fled out. No. No gaping holes through their skulls with their brains dripping down their noses. No burnt off legs. They could walk just fine.

“How’d you get your limp?” Brendon asked, staring at Ryan.

“My limp?”

“Uh huh.” Brendon nodded. “How’d you get it? I know you said you had a fucked leg but you never said… I never asked how you fucked it.”

“I didn’t. My dad fucked it.”

That didn’t sound right. They stared at each other for a second and Brendon tried hard to contain his laugh but it came out as an ugly snort through his nose. That was enough to spur Ryan into a hard laugh, grinning wider. 

His teeth were straight and white. A good smile on him. A really good smile. And he had thinner lips, sure, but they were this pale pink, this sort of grey color. They were nice looking. It was such a worrying smile he had, hesitant and almost fearful of what people would think of him if he smiled. He shouldn’t have been concerned though. No one could dislike a smile like that. A good smile and his teeth were nice and his lips were nice too and God, why did Brendon want to kiss him?

Kiss him? Kiss Ryan Ross? No. No, he didn’t want to do that. This was a fleeting thing. It always was. Brendon would find a guy, he’d fixate, and he’d be ‘in love’ for a day or two. It would pass. This honeymoon phase would pass and he wouldn’t like Ryan anymore. 

Although the phase on Dallon wouldn’t. He liked Dallon a lot. He loved Dallon. Maybe not romantically yet, but he would. Eventually. His lips were too soft not to love after some time. And that’s all Brendon needed. He’d been infatuated with Dallon when he first met him. He knew Dallon was a great-looking guy. Heartbreaker eyes and stupid clothes. Beautiful. So he could love him. He would. Eventually. 

“No, it’s…” Ryan’s voice was stifled by fading laughter. “My dad broke uh—broke a chair on it. My leg. And that’s how it got fucked. Broke wrong, or something. Hurt like a bitch, I’ll tell you that.”

Brendon gaped. “He broke a chair on your leg?”

Ryan was still grinning. “He did, yeah.”

“Why are you smiling?” Brendon asked because he was legitimately concerned and curious as to why Ryan would be smiling so wide to something like that. 

Ryan shook his head and looked into his lap, at the baby bible and played with the pages once more. He shrugged. “Never told anyone that before.” 

Brendon’s breath caught in his throat for a moment. 

Ryan shouldn’t do that. Tell him things no one else had heard. Brendon wasn’t worthy of Ryan Ross’s secrets. He wasn’t. And he never would be, either. 

“Your dad sounds like a—” Brendon couldn’t even think of a word to describe the hate that blossomed in him. He could see the bruises so plainly on Ryan’s face. He would kill George Ross if he ever met him. Well and truly, he’d end him. “A fucking shit.”

Ryan laughed loudly again but Brendon couldn’t find the situation funny. “He is. My dad’s a real fucking shit.”

“What about your mom?” Brendon asked and he wished he’d asked these questions sooner. 

“Never had a mom,” Ryan answered and his smile was falling. “You?”

“I got the best ma in the world,” Brendon said and he did. He had a good family. Two brothers. Two sisters. He was the young one. Wow, he had two brothers and two sisters and two parents that he hadn’t even bothered to call when he got back. Three years. They knew he was alive. Probably anyway. Besides, he hadn’t spoken with them in a long, long while. Ages before he enlisted. They probably didn’t care about him anymore. Not like Ryan did.

“And your dad?” Ryan asked. 

“Good guy.” And Boyd Urie was. He was a good guy. Especially compared to George Ross. Not a lot else to say on the subject. 

“Do they live here?” Ryan asked. “Your family?”

Brendon shook his head. He felt slightly guilty. “No.”

“You don’t keep in touch?” Ryan asked. He didn’t sound all that judgmental, much to Brendon’s surprise. It was just a question. 

Brendon shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“You wish you did?” Ryan asked. 

“Not anymore.” Brendon thought a beat. “You think you’re gonna stay in touch with your dad?”

Ryan smiled again. “Not anymore.”

Brendon chuckled. “I support that. Fucking shits don’t deserve sons like you.”

“He’ll die before I talk to him anyway. Cancer,” Ryan said. He didn’t sound the slightest bit upset. “He’s got—what? Few months at most.”

Brendon didn’t say anything about how that implied Ryan would be staying with him for a few months. Didn’t mention that at all. Brendon said, squinting his eyes a little, “I’m sorry. I think.” 

Ryan waved a hand. “Don’t be. I’m sure as hell not. Man can die whenever he wants; I don’t care.”

Brendon nodded slowly. A brave thing to say. Say you didn’t care when your father died. Brendon would care if his dad died. He should call his dad. And his mom. And his brothers and his sisters. All of them. If nothing else, just to let them know he was back safe. He didn’t kill himself. Thank God. 

There was a lapse in the conversation. Brendon tried to think of something to say but there wasn’t anything pressing. Nothing extremely dire on hand. He checked the clock. It was five in the morning. 

“You wanna get coffee?” Brendon asked in a desperate need to keep talking. Anything to keep Ryan Ross engaged, smiling that nervous smile. Anything for that. 

Ryan perked up a little. “Coffee?”

“Yeah. I told you rain-check remember?” Brendon said. “It’s getting morning now. You wanna get some coffee? I’ll show you around Clearfield if you want in the meantime. I don’t mind.”

Ryan blinked a few times. “Are you sure I don’t look too much like—”

He gestured to his bruised face and Brendon shook his head, saying, “No, it’s alright. No one’ll care anyhow. It’s healing pretty good. You’ll be alright.”

Brendon started to pull himself off the couch, taking that as an okay to go forth with his plans. He walked to his bedroom to collect his coat. Heard Ryan shout out something incoherent from the living room. 

“What?” Brendon asked, entering back into the living room as he tugged his coat on over his seersucker shirt. 

“I’ll pay,” Ryan repeated. 

Brendon scoffed. “No, you will not, Ryan Ross. It’s on me.”

“You can’t keep doing this,” Ryan said through a chuckle, although his voice was pleading, as he stood up off the couch, leaving the baby bible and the pillow on the furniture. His suspenders were tight on his shoulders and he had on dress pants. He looked good. 

“Doing what?” Brendon asked innocently. Tried not to make it too obvious he was tracing the way the suspenders clung to Ryan’s thin frame.

“Being so good to me,” Ryan said absently. He hadn’t noticed Brendon’s line of sight. “It’s not fair.”

“It absolutely is.” Brendon held the door open for Ryan to walk out which resulted in an exaggerated eye-roll on Ryan’s part as he walked through. The rings felt heavy on Brendon's fingers as he followed Ryan out into the hallway. _Your Heart is Mine._

Ryan was wrong. It was fair. It was about time that Ryan Ross got treated well. Someone had to help that boy out. Someone had to care about him the way he cared about others. And why not Brendon? Why not? He was as good a candidate as any. Jon Walker had said it himself; people were fun to ruin. And Brendon aught to give it a try sometime. So why shouldn't he be the one to care for Ryan Ross? When Ryan Ross batted those shatter-me eyes, someone had to hold the hammer. Why not Brendon Urie? 

He was good at breaking pretty things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tell you what, I have had no time. That being said, I hope you still managed to enjoy it and the next chapters will be better. And not to worry, this slow burn is gonna start burning faster very, very soon. So bear with me. In the meantime, I've completely screwed my outline up so it is probably not 35 chapters anymore. It's closer to about 37 or 40. I'm gonna keep it as 35 though just in case I can manage to get myself back on track. All that being said, thank you for reading. 
> 
> Also, I've realized that it is an asshole thing not to reply to comments. And I, as your honorary not-an-asshole, will now start replying to your incredible comments because they really are phenomenal and I need to acknowledge that. 
> 
> Thanks.   
> :)


	19. Nice Mr. Missing

Clearfield was shaping up to be a rather nice town. Or at least Ryan thought so. 

It was a smaller place, a tighter knit community than they had in Vegas, and the buildings were evenly spaced out. Brendon lived in a nice neighborhood it seemed, with several different apartment buildings lined up on the street between normal, by-the-book houses. A few duplexes here and there. A nice place. Really the sort of place you lived when you got older. When there was nothing better to do but wither out and die.

Not to say that Ryan didn’t like the small place. It was quaint, cute. Really, very pleasant and if Brendon liked it Ryan liked it too. Besides, withering and dying wasn’t so bad, was it? 

Brendon had informed Ryan that there was a coffeehouse a few streets over and that was where they would be going. Ryan almost questioned why they didn’t stay at Brendon’s apartment and just make coffee themselves but decided that perhaps it was Brendon’s excuse to show Ryan around. And Ryan was alright with that. 

“Haven’t been there in three years,” Brendon said absently as they walked down the stairs from his building, Brendon taking them two at a time and Ryan ambling after slowly, holding onto the railing while he limped.

It was Ryan’s first time out in Clearfield since arriving by taxi to Brendon’s. He hadn’t appreciated it much when he was just watching it pass by in the car window. Of course, his mind had been slightly preoccupied then. Thoughts of a scribbled note on a napkin that read 'nowhere' and a long lost war buddy weren’t exactly easy memories for him to push down. But now he could take Clearfield in for what it was. Brendon’s home. And that meant he had to appreciate it. He was required. 

“That’s something you miss, huh?” Brendon asked, having reached the bottom of the stairs and turning to look up at Ryan with those large brown eyes of his. He was smiling and on their walk down the hall—not even two feet from his apartment door—he’d lit a new cigarette that now dangled from his mouth. “A good cup of Joe.”

Ryan fixed Brendon with a crooked smile in return as he reached the bottom as well, still using the railing to properly support himself, and toyed with his suspenders. He hadn’t exactly thought of Utah as being cold but the September air blew at him with a vengeance as he let his orval shoes click onto the pavement. He said, flicking at his suspenders with a finger, “Absolutely it is.” 

Brendon grinned some more and took a short drag from his cigarette. When he opened his mouth, smoke poured out. “It’s those little things, isn’t it? The stuff that really gets you is the stuff you never even thought about.”

He shoved his hands into his jacket; the collar of it raised up against his neck and the wind beat at it incessantly. 

Ryan tilted his head in thought at the comment as he and Brendon started to walk again, Ryan holding onto both his suspenders with his hands. He felt a little stupid, realizing that everyone along the street they passed was wearing their coat and there he was; Ryan Ross, truly the tourist in his thin white shirt and suspenders, limp and all, bruises littering his person. 

He averted his eyes, hopeful no one would stare. 

“I mean, you know what really got me when I came back?” Brendon asked, oblivious to Ryan’s discomfort as they walked. He wasn’t looking at Ryan. Instead, his eyes were focused further down the street, mapping out their route mentally.

“What?” Ryan asked in response, genuinely curious to find out. 

What had surprised Brendon Urie when he first came back from war? What about Clearfield, Utah had knocked him off balance? Vaguely, Ryan wondered what had surprised _himself_ about being home. He hadn’t given it all that much thought in actuality. How different the world had become in three years. 

What was different about Las Vegas? The strip was almost done, that was new and rather intriguing. Not that he’d gone down there at all. He hadn’t. Just seen it in the distance, all the lights turned on and blaring. That was it. But it was beautiful; he’d wanted to see it. Or, more accurately, he’d wanted to see it with Z. And Z was… otherwise engaged… so that plan hadn’t tracked too well. Ryan Ross had never seen the Las Vegas strip and all those pretty lights, so he couldn’t count it as something he found awe-inspiring when he came back from France.

France was prettier than Las Vegas anyhow. It had better lights than the strip. Not as bright, sure. Las Vegas shone like the sun. But the subtle, starlight glow of France was better. Petitely beautiful, wasn’t it? And, for a split second as he walked on a street in Clearfield, Ryan missed France. 

Or, well, he missed _parts_ of France. Missed the lit up windows of that tiny town in Nancy he could see over the hill. Missed a day by the creek edge when Brendon sank one of his dead man rings. Missed a broken down house that Brendon Urie sat under in the rain, smoking soggy cigarettes. 

He could hear the click of Brendon’s shiny oxfords on the pavement ahead of him and he missed the sinking of boots in mud. 

But what else about Las Vegas? What else had been new to Ryan?

Spencer Smith had gotten shot in the leg. That was rather jaw-dropping information. That Ryan’s best friend since they could walk had been shot overseas. Ryan realized as he sauntered along with Brendon down the street that he should have said something about Spencer’s leg. Should have at least made a joke that they were both cripples now. Not that Spencer would have found it even the slightest bit comical. 

Spencer seriously needed to get a sense of humor. Sometimes being shot was funny. 

And what else? What had changed about Vegas? What about Z? Well, Z had fallen in love with someone else. Now that was something Ryan couldn’t joke about. That hurt a little too much for it to pack a joke. Changed a little too drastically.

Ryan didn’t like change. He should have told the world to stay the same way before he left. Granted, it wouldn’t have listened. The world didn’t listen to the requests of someone like Ryan Ross. 

“I had a Tom Collins,” Brendon’s voice surfaced again and it occurred to Ryan that Brendon wasn’t aware of the inner monologue sprouting through his brain like ugly weeds. He needed to start plucking the garden in his mind. It was overgrowing. 

“A Tom Collins?” Ryan echoed, pretending like he had been listening all along. 

“Yeah,” Brendon replied, sucking on his cigarette again. He gestured with his head for Ryan to follow him around the corner and Ryan did. 

“And?” Ryan prompted. 

“I like sugar,” Brendon murmured absently as he tapped his cigarette to release ash. Ryan watched it float to the ground at their moving feet. “Something sweeter, you know. It could have used some sugar.”

Ryan chuckled to himself. “So that’s what you missed, huh? That’s what war couldn’t get you? A pinch of sugar?”

Brendon laughed too, seemingly pleased with what Ryan had said. “See, that’s what I’m saying! It’s all those little things. All the stuff I never realized I missed until I had it back. You don’t even _think_ about sugar in France.” 

“You’re right. But I guess it’s good though,” Ryan said and Brendon sent him a look. A cloud of smoke dissipated between the pair. “Not knowing you missed it until you have it. It’d really bite if you only knew you loved it when you lost it.”

“Why is it that you like to make everything cynical? It’s a talent you have, Ryan Ross, did you know?” Brendon smoked and they turned another corner. “Turning everything upbeat to blues.”

“I like the blues,” Ryan replied, smiling still. He ran his hands down his suspenders and into his pockets. They were getting a little too cold for his liking and he wondered if maybe Brendon had a pair of gloves he’d be willing to loan over. 

Brendon whistled two notes and kept on smiling. “I know that about you.”

The two continued to walk down the street in Clearfield and several times Brendon pointed to a building and recited some sort of memory. Who used to live there, if they still did or not. What he thought of them; were they nice? If they said hello when he had passed them or if they never gave him the time of day. And Ryan held onto every single word. Similarly as interested to when Brendon had sung for him in the apartment about an hour prior. 

Brendon could sing. God, could he. Ryan hadn’t ever met a person with a voice so smooth. Even Sinatra could barely hold a candle. Those people at the Walk of Shame were some lucky bastards that they got to listen to Brendon Urie every night. Ryan wondered if they knew it too.

But he supposed perhaps he was luckier. He was the one, after all, that got a private show. He was the one who was allowed to sleep in Brendon’s bed and sit on his couch in his apartment while he sang to Ryan. To Ryan specifically, not to anyone else. Ryan was the one who asked. He would take that over a crowded bar any day. He’d be fine not going to the Walk of Shame any time soon if it meant having Brendon’s voice all to himself. Yes, perhaps he was the lucky one. 

“Tell me what you missed,” that same smooth voice that Sinatra couldn't hold a candle too piped up as they reached the door to a small coffeehouse. Joe’s or something. That was clever. Cup of joe from Joe’s. Ryan liked that; he’d remember that. Clearfield was a funny place. He liked it.

Ryan glanced at Brendon who was tugging the door open. He wondered if Brendon knew how talented he was. “What I missed?”

“The little things,” Brendon hummed back, leaning against the side of the open glass door, the bell at the top singing out loudly. It didn’t sound as pleasant as Brendon’s voice had. 

Ryan didn’t reply to what Brendon had said, simply walking inside the building. There was a trashcan next to the door and Brendon threw out his stub of a cigarette only to pull a new one from his pocket instantly. Ryan wondered why he was still smoking so much. Making up for lost time, he supposed. Maybe Ryan should smoke some. Maybe there was some sort of secret he wasn’t being let in on. He’d understand it if he smoked. 

The place was cozy, kind-looking, and the smell of coffee beans and cream was soothing on Ryan’s nose. He had missed the smell of coffee, hadn’t he? How long had it been since he had a good cup of joe? Oh, far too long. Ryan took in a heavy breath just to smell the tainted air. 

The door swung shut and Brendon walked up beside him, holding a hand up to his mouth where his cigarette was. His hair was pushed around from the wind and he tried to rectify it with his other hand. Ryan observed as he did so, not saying anything as Brendon pushed his hair around and raked fingers through it, holding his cigarette with the other hand. 

Brendon scratched at the side of his head and pulled the cigarette away, asking Ryan—who pretended he hadn’t been watching—in an eager voice, “What’s something you never knew you missed until you got it back?” 

“The smell,” Ryan answered back almost instantly, almost too prepared, still enamored with just how the air of the coffeehouse hit him. He looked at Brendon and pointed his finger nowhere in particular, just up at the air. “Do you smell that?”

For the show of it, Ryan took a whiff of the air and let out a tiny sigh. Brendon watched him do so. He repeated, skeptical while still awed, “The _smell_.”

“Of coffee,” Ryan answered. “I haven’t had coffee in—” 

He paused, trying to think on it. They got coffee with their rations, there was a whole fuss about it. All over America, people were cutting down on coffee just so soldiers could get a hit of that bitter taste. Although it usually wasn’t much. Just a cup every few days if that. And it was never any good. Ryan had always thought the whole ordeal was obnoxious. He didn’t need coffee. Screw coffee; there were better things in the world. And it wasn’t even decent. Ryan hadn’t had good coffee in…

“Years.”

“Feels like it, huh?” Brendon answered while smiling blankly at Ryan. It was a sort of dazed smile, one he wasn’t working especially hard to hold up and it twitched at the corners. “It’s crazy being back here, I tell you. I think they’ve painted. Do you like that color?” 

Ryan looked around the small coffeehouse, the walls painted thickly and messily with an eggshell color that hinted more towards cream than it did white. The ceiling was the same way, a shade or two darker perhaps, and Ryan seriously started to wonder again why no one painted stars on their ceilings. 

The world would look much more charming if everyone had ceilings dotted with constellations. 

“It’s alright,” Ryan said, not removing his eyes from the starless expanse above him.

“What’s your favorite color?” Brendon asked suddenly and Ryan wondered why he was asking questions all of a sudden. It wasn’t because Ryan had told him about his leg, was it? He hoped not. 

He didn’t regret telling Brendon that. Brendon was the only one in the world he’d told. Not the only person in the world that knew though; apparently everyone knew according to Spencer. But Brendon was the only one Ryan—of his own accord—disclosed that information to. He wondered if it made Brendon feel special. It should. It was a special thing. 

“I don’t know,” Ryan answered and he honestly didn’t. He’d never given his favorite color much thought. A grown man didn’t need to know his favorite color. “Burgundy, I think.”

“Burgundy?” Brendon repeated and his falsified smile steadily curled into a real one. 

“I said I don’t know.”

“That fits you so well,” Brendon affirmed and he had to laugh. “Ryan Ross’s favorite color is burgundy. Because of course it is.”

“What about you then?” Ryan asked back and he realized that Brendon and he were successfully blocking the door to the rest of the room. It didn’t matter though, there was no one inside. There was no one at the counter actually and Ryan wondered if they had unknowingly just broken into a coffeehouse. “What’s a better color than burgundy, if you’re so well versed in color?”

“Oh big words from the big man,” Brendon teased. “Red has always been my favorite color. Or at least it was, I guess until—”

Until. Yeah. There were too many things that were red now. What interesting thing colors were. Ryan hadn’t thought so much about the so-called ‘little things’ Brendon spoke of or of favorite colors. But colors were fascinating, really. How could you describe a color? What was red?

“Burgundy is close to that,” Ryan said, interrupting Brendon’s fall out in hopes to keep Brendon from continuing. He didn’t need a play by play of what had ruined red for him. He knew what ruined red. People ruined red. Because people were red. And Ryan really didn’t need to think about that right now. 

A coffee shop in Clearfield was no place to ponder over death. 

“It is,” Brendon agreed halfheartedly and he too had started to look around the store, apparently realizing as well that they were the only ones inside. He glanced at Ryan. “Surely they heard the bell ring?”

“I did.”

Ryan and Brendon both turned to see the man that had apparently materialized from thin air at the counter. He smiled at them with tired eyes—it was about six in the morning after all—and Ryan smiled back just as uncomfortable. Brendon’s own smile wasn’t out of sorts, it wasn’t odd. Brendon smiled like Brendon was supposed to, broad and happy and uncontrollable. Ryan wondered if there was anyone in the world who could control Brendon Urie. He doubted it. 

“Hi,” Brendon greeted, sauntering over to the man, Ryan in tow. “How are you?”

“I’m fine; yourself?” the man asked. 

“Dandy,” Brendon replied and he kept smiling. Ryan loved his smile. It was such a good one. All wide and shiny. He’d probably never get tired of seeing Brendon smile. 

“What can I get for you?” the man asked, all pleasantries aside. 

Brendon answered without missing a beat, “A medium decaf, would you? And sugar too, please. All the sugar you can give me.”

Ryan laughed despite himself. So Brendon Urie liked sugar. By the sounds of it, he loved sugar. Ryan tucked that piece of information into his brain. He didn’t know when exactly he would need to produce it again but just in case. Saved it away in the file in his brain marked ‘Brendon’. 

He realized that was steadily becoming the largest file he owned. 

“And you?” The man—who wasn’t as nearly enamored with Brendon’s sweets obsession as Ryan was—directed his gaze to Ryan who glanced up, surprised he was actually expected to speak. 

“Uhm—” Ryan blinked. A coffee order. He didn’t have a coffee order. He’d been at war for three years. They didn't ask you how you wanted your coffee prepared in France. They just gave you the cup, scalding hot, and you drank it before you started marching again. Ryan barely drank coffee. Usually, it made him fidget and he didn’t like that. “Regular, I suppose.”

The man just nodded and turned away again to the cash register and Ryan peered over the counter a little to watch the man force the rusty thing open. Ryan wondered what sort of man worked at a coffeehouse. Did he go to war? Was this the only place he could find work after? Technically though, that meant he was better off than Ryan. What if he was impaired or something of that sort and he didn't go? Ryan didn’t have a clue. 

“I’m still paying by the way,” Brendon said to his side, directed at Ryan. 

“You’re not,” Ryan answered, already placing his hand in pocket. 

He wasn’t going to let Brendon cater to him. He didn’t need that. Not that he wasn’t alright with it. It was sort of enjoyable, in a way. Being cared for. But Brendon shouldn’t feel like Ryan was a liability. Shouldn’t feel as though he _needed_ to care for Ryan. Ryan fretted. What if Brendon thought he was obligated to take care of him? That wouldn’t do. 

“It’s on one ticket?” The man asked, looking up. 

“Yes,” Brendon said at the same time Ryan replied, “No.”

The man paused and looked between the pair, confused. 

“It is. Just the one,” Brendon said, more conviction in his voice and he sent Ryan a look that said ‘don’t you even think about protesting Ryan Ross, this one’s on me’. But so many had already been on Brendon. Too many. But Brendon’s eyes said _don’t you dare_ so Ryan shut his mouth. 

Instead—so he didn’t have to stand there awkwardly to the side while Brendon bought him something he could have paid for himself—Ryan wandered over to seat himself at a table next to the biggest window. He’d only been to coffeehouses a few times. He wasn’t so fond of them and Spencer hadn’t been either when they hung out so they didn’t go often. Z liked them alright and every now and then, just to humor her, Ryan would tag along and the two would sit across from each other and chat idly without ever taking a sip from their drinks. 

Brendon said he hadn’t been to the coffeehouse in three years which meant he had come before the war. Ryan wondered if Brendon ever took a girl to the coffeehouse; paid for her drink as he did for Ryan. The thought was enough to make Ryan shift in his seat, wildly uncomfortable with the whole situation. 

Next time, he was paying for his own damn coffee. 

He always paid for Z when the two of them went out together. Always. And when he and Spencer went somewhere, they always paid for their own. So Brendon insisting on paying for him, while a kind gesture, really wasn’t very pleasing. 

Brendon came over a minute later, two unattractive cups balanced in his hand, his lopsided cigarette clenched between two fingers, and about four packets of sugar clenched between his teeth. Ryan had to laugh. He had to at the concentration that dominated Brendon’s face as he set the cups down and dropped sugar packets from his mouth to his hand. 

“I could have helped you with that,” Ryan said in amusement, continuing to smile as Brendon took the seat across from him. 

“You didn’t need to,” Brendon said, averting his eyes to the window and running them up and down the street. He had fixed his cigarette back into his mouth. Without looking, he tore open a sugar packet and dumped it in his coffee. “It looks great today. I don’t wake up early enough.”

Ryan didn’t say anything, only turned his own eyes out the window as well. Brendon was right, it did look great. It was too early for there to be a surplus of people bustling around but there were a few straggles, ambling their way down the sidewalk and maybe one or two cars on the road. It was a nice town, Clearfield. Really it was. 

Brendon had picked a great place to grow old and die. Did Ryan want to die in Vegas? Ryan didn’t want to die at all, as he and Brendon had discussed. He thought he didn’t anyway. Surely he didn’t want to die. But if he did, where would he want to go? Not Las Vegas by any stretch and Clearfield wasn’t his own town. 

Maybe he should have died in France. France had such beautiful lights. 

Ryan held his coffee cup in both hands while Brendon continued to blindly pour sugar into his. 

“That’s a little thing too,” Brendon said and Ryan frowned in confusion. 

“What is?”

“Waking up early.” Brendon fixed him with a smile and started stirring his coffee with a chipped spoon. “Didn’t realize how much I missed sleeping in late.”

Ryan nodded. He couldn’t share the sentiment. He didn’t sleep at all. 

“So we’ve found out that I am… over the moon about sleeping late, coffee, Tom Collins, sugar, some upbeat jazz and the color red,” Brendon stated aloud, listing things absently as he counted on his fingers. “And about you, Ryan Ross, we have learned that you like the _smell_ of coffee, the blues, the color burgundy, and that your dad fucked your leg.” 

Ryan laughed. He thought about the pit in his stomach when Spencer had spoken about knowing, but when Brendon joked it wasn’t so bad. Ryan knew Brendon cared. He’d seen the spark in Brendon’s eyes when he'd admitted it, so he knew. Still though, there wasn’t pity there. There was another sort of understanding and Ryan wondered if Boyd Urie was as great a guy as Brendon said he was. 

Ryan dipped his head and pressed his chilled fingertips to the sides of his cup to warm them. “Right yeah. There you go.”

“So that’s six for me. And four for you. Hm. Correct me if I’m wrong—didn’t go to college, you know—”

“I know,” Ryan chuckled, drumming a beat on the side of his cup. “You went to war.”

“Exactly, and believe it or not they didn’t have math classes there,” Brendon said, fakely disbelieving. 

“Did they not?” Ryan feigned surprise. 

“Nope.” Brendon's tone was strictly playful. “But based on my limited understanding; four doesn’t equal six.”

Ryan smiled down into his coffee. He could make out a darkened reflection of himself in the black liquid. His hands were feeling warmer and the smell truly was divine. “You’re right about that.”

“So tell me two more little things.”

Ryan shook his head and he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. Brendon seemed hyper and that was probably from sleep deprivation mixed with about three cigarettes in the span of an hour and a half, and all the sugar he was consuming. 

Or perhaps something else that Ryan just didn’t know yet. Perhaps this is what singing did to Brendon. Made him smile and laugh and all around giddy, asking pointless questions. Ryan was fine with that. He liked happy Brendon. 

“My suspenders,” Ryan said and he flicked one for effect. He still had one hand on his coffee mug but didn’t drink any. Brendon sipped at his own across the table, balancing his cigarette between two fingers. “I like my suspenders.”

Brendon parted the mug from his lips and the smile he fixed Ryan with was dazzling. “Feel the same way about my oxfords.” 

The shoes clicked beneath the table and Ryan laughed again. 

“And one more thing,” Brendon said, taking a short drag. “Tell me one more little thing and we’re even.”

“Why are you making this out to be a game?” Ryan asked, bemused. 

Brendon shrugged. “Seemed the thing to do.”

“Well, I missed uh—my…” He paused. “A little thing?”

Brendon placed his pointer finger and his thumb a centimeter apart to show Ryan and the dead man rings on his finger caught the light from the window. He breathed out smoke. “A tiny thing.”

“Taxis,” Ryan finally decided after a beat of consideration and Brendon tilted his head, coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “I missed taxis. More specifically, taxi drivers. You know why?”

“Why?” 

“Because I missed how absolutely _boring_ people can be.”

Brendon laughed. 

“I mean he drove me out here and I swear the man just couldn’t come up with a single decent thing to say,” Ryan went on, hopeful to make Brendon laugh again. That was really the only reason he spoke anymore, wasn’t it? Just so Brendon Urie would hear him. “He asked me what the weather in Las Vegas was like three times in that one ride, Bren. _Three_.”

Brendon continued to laugh and Ryan’s chest warmed like his fingers on the coffee cup with the sound. “You’re right. I guess you do forget how boring people can be. Now I want to take a taxi someplace.”

“Don’t,” Ryan warned. “You’ll get bored.”

Brendon made a wheezing sound when he laughed and Ryan listened to it, loved it. Loved how when Brendon laughed—well and truly and unbothered—one of his eyes squinted more than the other and his breathing hitched unusually and he touched at his chest with a hand adorned with dead man rings and little bursts of grey came from his lungs up into the air. 

“So there,” Ryan said once Brendon had quieted himself down. “That’s six things. I like the smell of coffee, the blues, the color burgundy, my suspenders, boring taxi drivers, and my dad fucked my leg. Good enough for you?”

Brendon chortled and nodded, not saying any actual words, just grinned and bobbed his head while he went back to smoking. Six things about Ryan Ross, that’s all he’d ever need to know. And Ryan knew six things about Brendon. He liked sleeping late, coffee, Tom Collins, sugar, some upbeat jazz, and the color red. 

Well, really Ryan knew a lot more than that. Could learn a lot about a guy in three years of war. 

Like Brendon’s birthday was April 12, 1922. He was raised Mormon and he had a bible with him in war that Ryan had never seen. He saved up cigarettes and only smoked when he was nervous and slept with girls named Shana in French towns. Knew that Brendon collected dead man rings and petted dogs in the war that bit him and killed a man in Normandy. That he wheezed when he laughed and squinted one eye when he smiled, well and true and unbothered. Knew that Brendon Urie looked a little too attractive for his own good. 

Ryan knew a lot of things about Brendon. Probably too many, in honesty. 

“And the flip side of it,” Brendon said and Ryan focused back in on him, those feminine features and that shiny, full-lipped smile. “Little things you miss about war.”

Ryan blinked. “Miss about war?”

“Uh huh.” Brendon smiled as Ryan stared at him in confusion. “I miss my sandals.”

Ryan snorted. “You didn’t need sandals.”

“But I _wanted_ sandals.” Brendon pointed a finger at Ryan with a knowing look and Ryan rolled his eyes, continuing to tap at the sides of his coffee cup. “Now, c’mon. Humor me. Something you miss from war.”

Brendon was smiling a wide, broad grin from ear to ear and his cheeks were flushed a striking shade of pink. Ryan noticed the signature squint of one of Brendon’s eyes and there it was, clear as day. The thing he missed from war. Right in front of him with too much sugar in his coffee and a playful expression on his face. 

It took careful consideration not to say the word ‘you’ out loud.

“Dan Pawlovich,” Ryan blurted, not taking his eyes off of Brendon. “That shifty prick.”

Brendon laughed again and the sound was better than any jazz or blues Ryan could ever hope to listen to. “Yeah? Where did he get off again?”

“I don’t have a single clue,” Ryan said, shaking his head and grinning. 

“How do you think he’s doing?”

“I have no idea.”

“Wonder if he likes it, being back,” Brendon surmised, blowing out a short huff of smoke. “I feel like he’ll miss his gun.”

Ryan laughed again and Brendon just kept on grinning. 

“You ever miss your gun?” Brendon asked him.

“No,” Ryan replied earnestly. “I don’t think I ever do.”

“I don’t really either.” Brendon sounded thoughtful and he held his mug in both hands to take a sip. Ryan still hadn’t drunk any of his. “Feel like I’d be a shit shot now.”

“You can’t become a shit shot in a week and a half, Bren,” Ryan said and his smile was fading slightly. Not because he was upset; he wasn’t. It just didn’t seem like the sort of thing you were supposed to smile about. 

Brendon licked his lips as he set his cup down and Ryan tried not to stare. “I feel like I could. Like I have.”

Ryan just shook his head but didn’t say anything. 

“I tell you what I miss," Brendon spoke again. "Mike Naran.”

Ryan frowned. “Thought you said you didn’t think about him anymore.”

“I don’t.” Brendon’s own smile had formed itself to a scowl. Ryan missed the squint of his eyes. “I just… Well, y’know. I miss how young he was. Does that make sense? I don’t miss Mike Naran so much. More so what a moron he was sometimes.”

Ryan let out an exhale that might be qualified as a laugh but not exactly. Brendon’s smile came back toward the corners of his mouth and Ryan thanked God for it. “I know what you mean.”

And Ryan did. Truly, he did. 

Brendon looked down at his empty coffee cup and sighed. “Not enough sugar.”

Ryan scoffed. 

“Here, let’s go,” Brendon offered and stood up. So that was the conversation about little things over, Ryan supposed. He wondered if Brendon was trying to avoid further questioning; scared of what he might reveal. “I told Dallon I’d be over for lunch.”

Dallon. 

Ryan blinked a few times to clear his head. Sift through his file on Brendon Urie for the name 'Dallon'. 

Dallon Weekes. The boy that Brendon made wishes with and that taught him how to play the piano. Also, the man that apparently worked at a speakeasy which let Brendon sing. The man that knew Ryan walked around Brendon’s apartment covered in bruises and was apparently having serious dame trouble. Or, that’s what Ryan remembered anyway.

Ryan nodded slowly and, since he hadn’t stood yet, just sat at the table. He figured he’d sit there for an hour or two more. Then go exploring perhaps. It wouldn’t be as fun without Brendon. Wouldn’t be fun at all with only himself for company, but he could manage. “Right. Okay.”

Brendon paused, staring down at him from his elevated position. He’d left his empty coffee cup on the table and his burnt out cigarette inside of it in lieu of any liquid. He made a small sound as if he couldn’t quite compose himself, as though he didn't know what he was meant to say. He finally said—and the way he said it made it sound like an epiphany he’d finally reached, “I mentioned getting you a key.”

Ryan peered up at him. He indicated with a small tilt of his head that he knew what Brendon had said but didn’t quite grasp what he was driving at. 

“You’ll need a key if you’re just wandering around town all day. I won’t be home until late and I don’t want you trapped outside…” His frown has settled in deep and his forehead was creased with worry lines.

“It’s really alright Bren,” Ryan started to say, trying to hold back his smile by just how panicked Brendon appeared. “I can just go back to the apartment now if—”

“Well, I don’t want you to be home all day,” Brendon protested and Ryan almost said something before he paused.

Home. 

Brendon had just called his apartment 'home' in reference to Ryan. Ryan’s home. That wasn’t right. That was wrong. This was a visit. A goddamn visit. _Get it through your thick skull, Ryan Ross, this is not going to last forever. Get while the going’s good. Do not—do_ not— _let Brendon Urie give you a key and call his apartment your home._

Brendon—completely unaware of Ryan’s panic—declared, “Dallon has a spare; I think it’d be a lot easier to just get you that one than it would be to make a whole new key. Dallon doesn’t use it anyways.” He gestured with his head towards the door. “Let’s go ahead and get you a key. You can have Dallon’s, at least for today.”

“I don’t need a—” Ryan tried. 

“Ryan, come _on_.” 

And just at the sound of that voice Ryan was up out of his seat without complaint and following Brendon out the door, leaving his own coffee cup on the table. 

He hadn’t taken a single sip. 

Brendon led him outside and proceeded back into the same routine as when they had walked to the coffeehouse; pointing out buildings and saying names Ryan could never hope to remember. It was about a mile, maybe a mile and a half, to Dallon Weekes’s. And Brendon couldn’t seem to shut up the whole way. 

He lit another cigarette on the walk, spoke around smoke, and—for the life of him—Ryan couldn’t comprehend what was making him smoke so much. 

“He’s a really great guy,” Brendon was saying as they ascended up the porch stairs of the duplex. It was an alright place; a joint house and Ryan wondered who lived next door. Brendon had mentioned a woman; Breezy. Perhaps that was the dame Dallon was having trouble with. “Been my best friend for years.”

Why did Ryan have the same sort of pit in his stomach as to when Z first introduced him to her parents? Dallon certainly wasn’t Brendon’s parent and Ryan certainly wasn’t Brendon’s fella that he was bringing home to meet the folks. So why was his stomach contracting in such a way? He willed it to stop but nothing helped. 

“And his eyes are crazy blue.”

That last part was spoken almost under his breath and Ryan perked up, frowning and confused because why would that be something he would need to know for meeting Dallon? Why would ‘oh yeah it’s nice to meet you sir, and by the way, your eyes are crazy blue’ be a good conversation starter? 

He opened his mouth to ask but only got a small sound out before Brendon was loudly hammering his fist on the door. Almost like he was trying to drown out what Ryan was going to say. 

He only needed to knock twice before the door was opening. It wasn’t flung open or forced open, it was just a causal pull. Ryan craned his neck from behind Brendon to see what he looked like. 

The man who opened the door, Mr. Weekes, was wearing a checkered shirt and khakis and he looked like every husband Ryan had ever seen, always hanging onto their wife and cracking jokes that weren’t funny. Not to say that he was bad looking. For a guy, Weekes was alright. He had messy tan hair—Jesus was he tall—a good, rounded jawline and he looked like a real clean, stand up guy. 

He had a questioning expression on his face when he opened the door at first. Or he did before he saw Brendon. The moment his eyes landed on Brendon Urie, however, his entire face lit up and a grin cracked over his face without hesitation. Wow, that was a big smile. That was a good smile, not nearly as nice as Ryan’s. And wow, his eyes really were crazy blue. 

Why were Ryan’s eyes so brown? Why weren’t his eyes that blue?

“Brendon, hey,” Weekes started and he had a silky voice. Not as smooth as Brendon’s, not as velvety, but it was gentle on the ears. Ryan watched the way Weekes smiled at Brendon and there was something off about it. “What are you—”

“Dallon, hi! You never got to meet Ryan officially,” Brendon interrupted and turned hurriedly to point at Ryan—who stiffened on instinct—standing behind him. Why was he speaking so fast? “Dallon, Ryan. Ryan, Dallon.”

“Oh uh hi,” Ryan said, feeling instantly uncomfortable as Weekes’s blue eyes landed on him. It was a much different look than the one he gave Brendon. No broad smile or excited eyes. This look was hard and it held Ryan tight in its glare. Ryan felt it the appropriate thing to hold out his hand. “I’m Ryan.”

“Dallon.” He looked down at Ryan’s hand and then back up at Ryan’s face. The glare softened significantly when he took Ryan’s hand in his own and his grip was tighter than Ryan imagined it would be. “Ross, right?”

Ryan couldn’t keep the surprise off his face. “Oh. Yeah. How did you—?”

“Brendon’s mentioned you before,” 'Dallon' said passively and he pulled away from Ryan to fold his arms. He shifted from one foot the other. It appeared as though now he was the one nervous. “Thought you were in Vegas.”

Ryan hoped his flinch wasn’t visible. “I’m just visiting.”

“For how long?” Did Dallon mean to sound so accusatory? Or perhaps that was just the way he talked. Some people talked more aggressively than others. Maybe Dallon Weekes was just a skeptical man. 

“Oh uh…” Ryan glanced at Brendon who had his eyes focused on Dallon. “I haven’t really—”

“A few weeks,” Brendon answered for him and thank God for Brendon. Thank God for him. 

“Oh, alright. Where are you staying?” Dallon asked, his eyes roaming Ryan up and down. 

“He’s at my place,” Brendon answered for Ryan again and Ryan really didn’t mind it. 

Dallon’s eyes flashed to Brendon. Held him that blue gaze and Ryan wondered how Brendon didn’t freeze on sight with how cold that look was. “Oh.”

“That’s actually why I brought him over,” Brendon said. He wasn’t scared of Dallon Weekes. “Do you think we could come inside?”

Reality seemed to hit Dallon at that moment as he jumped slightly, grip on himself loosening and he said, “Right. I’ve forgotten my manners, haven’t I? Sure. Come in. It’s great to meet you Ryan, sorry. Just a tad bit sleep deprived. Lot of work to do.”

He stepped aside so that Brendon could go straight in and Ryan could follow at a snail’s pace, twitching barely when Dallon shut the door behind him. The three men all stood together in Dallon’s sitting room and Ryan glanced around. It was a beautiful house. Really, it was. Much larger than Brendon’s apartment and better furnished too. Brendon really didn’t have a lot of furniture, did he? Why was that?

Brendon stood closer to Ryan than he did to Dallon and smoked his newest cigarette. Ryan watched him do so from the corner of his eyes. Why did Brendon look so worried? 

Brendon asked, to clear the silence, directed at Dallon, “You still have your spare key, don’t you?”

Dallon stared at him. He tapped sock-clad feet on the carpet while his eyebrows drew together and it was obvious he wasn’t very pleased with where the conversation was going. Not angry at all; he appeared more stressed than anything else. Maybe he had something at Brendon’s that he needed the key for. “Course I do.”

“Do you think I could have it back?” Brendon asked. 

Ryan decided then that if there was ever a perfect time to shrink down to the size of an ant, this was it. Dallon’s brows raised and if Ryan knew him at all, he would say the man looked hurt. But, of course, he didn’t know Dallon Weekes so he really shouldn’t be placing labels on emotions he didn’t understand. 

Dallon stood there for a few seconds in silence before he said, slowly and calculating, “Yeah. I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to. Here, I think it’s upstairs. You wanna come help me find it?”

Ryan frowned. Those words sounded like they meant something different than what was said aloud. The way Dallon’s voice lowered and he held Brendon in his stare. The way that Brendon took a heavier breath of smoke. Something was off about this interaction. Something was wrong but Ryan couldn’t quite place a finger on it. 

“Sure you can’t do it on your own?” Brendon suggested hopefully. 

Dallon smiled and it was flat. “I’d really appreciate the help.”

Brendon sighed, defeated. He didn’t seem especially stressed or worried by the interaction but he wouldn’t take the cigarette out of his mouth and his smile had long since faded. He glanced over at Ryan as Dallon turned to clamber up the stairs. “I’ll be down in a minute, Ry.”

He started to walk away after Dallon and there was a split second of panic in Ryan’s belly as he shot out his arm to catch Brendon by the wrist. Similarly to how Brendon had grabbed him during the war so he wouldn’t tell Dan Pawlovich and Mike Naran about the man Brendon killed. 

Brendon turned back expectantly. 

“What?” He asked. Those same imploring eyes.

Ryan swallowed. “Did I do something? Is he mad?”

“Who? Dallon?” Brendon asked to which Ryan nodded numbly. “No. No, he’s not… he’s not mad. You didn't do a thing. He’s just... _protective_ is all. You’ll like him once you get to know each other. Now just stay down here for a minute; I’ll be right back, I swear. Just gotta grab the key. Make yourself comfortable; Dallon won’t mind.” 

Brendon flashed that smile and Ryan reluctantly released his grip to let him leave. Watched after him as he ascended the stairs away from Ryan and out of his grasp up into Dallon Weekes’s home. Of course, it was going to be Ryan’s key Brendon was looking for. 

Dallon was protective. That was all. How stupid was that? Brendon didn’t need protecting. Ryan knew it himself, no one could take control of Brendon Urie; why bother trying? Even war couldn’t keep that boy down. He’d never needed protecting. Ryan knew that about him. Ryan knew a lot about Brendon Urie. Probably too much. 

He wondered how much Dallon Weekes knew. If Dallon Weekes knew what little things Brendon had missed. If he knew that Brendon liked sleeping late, coffee, Tom Collins, sugar, some upbeat jazz, and the color red. Or if Dallon knew what Brendon Urie did in France. 

Knew that he killed a man in Normandy or slept with a girl in Nancy or if he knew that Brendon collected dead man rings or if he smoked when he was nervous. Probably not. Ryan could bet money on it. He knew more about Brendon Urie than Dallon Weekes could ever _hope_ to know. 

What did Dallon know about Brendon Urie? Not enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will never have to wait more than seven days for a chapter. This took six and that was because I was out of town (yay). If it's been longer than seven days and you still don't have a ryden ww2 chapter you can probably assume that I'm dead or... it's probably that I'm dead because I'm desperate to finish this story and don't see myself stopping any time soon lol. But I guess that's what they all say. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	20. Anyone's an Idiot

Dallon was mad. He was so obviously mad. 

Brendon could tell by the way he shut the door behind them when they entered his bedroom, Brendon first and Dallon hanging back in front of the door. Blocking the only exit Brendon had as if he would run. Perhaps he would, given the chance. Running was certainly more appealing than standing in the middle of a bedroom that wasn’t his, Dallon’s sharp blue eyes trained on him with malice in their gaze. 

He was glaring. Well and truly, he was pouting and glaring and—for a second—Brendon half expected him to throw a full-blown temper tantrum. 

When had Dallon Weekes turned into such a child?

Brendon smiled what he hoped was a reassuring grin and took his cigarette from his mouth for a moment. He was smoking too much. He’d gone through an entire pack in the last two days. He needed to get a new habit. Maybe he would start eating sunflower seeds. Something to distract his mind from smoke. 

“Hi,” he said without properly thinking of what would come next. Just something so he could get rid of the awful silence that had started to invade the room, creeping in from all sides and surrounding the pair. 

Dallon had his hands behind his back, pressed up against the door. He really did look like he was sleep deprived, grey bags beneath those shadowed blue eyes of his and hair messy, certain curls lined with sweat. Still though, he looked good. Just as handsome as he had always been. 

He blinked, exasperated, and repeated mockingly, “ _Hi_?”

“Hi,” Brendon answered, still doing his best to smile. 

Dallon continued to stare at him through widened eyes, a pout plain on his face. “You gonna tell me what’s going on right now?”

Brendon feigned confusion and took the time to elicit a slow drag from his cigarette. Anything to distract his twitching fingers. “What do you mean?”

Dallon didn’t even find it funny enough to roll his eyes. He just kept them trained on Brendon, straight forward, mouth slightly open in shock. Such a child. “What do you mean ‘what do I mean’? I think it’s fairly obvious what I mean.”

Was Dallon only able to have one argument? For an English teacher, his vocabulary wasn’t so colorful. Brendon was starting to realize that Dallon wasn’t very good at expressing himself through words. Maybe it was a good thing he quit teaching. Then and again though, Brendon wasn’t so great at sharing either. He could understand Dallon. 

Didn’t mean he wasn’t irritated though. 

“Use your words, Dal,” Brendon said and he tried his best to sound bored. 

If he didn’t make it into a big deal, it wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t have to be one. What was there to fuss over really? It was just his long lost war buddy that he almost considered going to Vegas with, Ryan Ross, staying at his house—in his bed—not knowing that he was gay, while he was sort of—not really, just a little bit—romantically involved with Dallon Weekes, his best friend. It didn’t have to be complicated. 

Oh, it was so overly complicated. How did Brendon get himself into this? Or did he get himself into it at all? Was it really his fault? Or could he just blame Dallon Weekes and Ryan Ross instead? It was their shit timing that screwed him over.

“Ryan Ross,” Dallon annunciated in a slow voice like it should mean something important. It didn’t have to. That name didn’t have to mean anything more important than any other name. Still though, Brendon felt himself twitch and he smoked more profusely. “Ross. Ryan. From the war.”

“Yes,” Brendon tried to sound bored that time. It was uneventful. Ryan’s name didn’t mean anything to him. It was just a name. Sometimes words are just words. “From France.”

“The boy that invited you to Vegas,” Dallon said firmly. “The boy you almost _went with_ to Vegas. Ryan Ross. Vegas boy. Here. Downstairs. And you’re asking me ‘what do you mean’. I _mean_ , what is he doing in my house?”

That had Brendon rolling his eyes hard into the back of his skull. Of course Dallon would make it a bigger deal than it was. Of course he would. That was apparently what Dallon Weekes did best. Built mountains out of ant piles. 

“Right now I think he’s sitting on the couch,” Brendon replied nonchalantly and Dallon scowled at him. 

“Brendon, I’m serious.”

“Why?” Brendon whined, throwing his hands up. “Why are you so serious?”

Ryan Ross and Dallon Weekes, the most straight-laced people Brendon could have picked. Those were his best friends. A boy with bruises on his face because his dad hit him that cowered at the sound of a voice too close and an ex-English teacher who worked at a secret gay club and still pretended to be an upstanding member of society. And, despite all of that, Brendon knew he couldn’t have chosen any better. 

“He’s a _friend_ , Dallon.” Brendon pinched the bridge of his nose. “And he’s having some… issues right now and—”

“What sort of issues?” Dallon pressed, not caring that he interrupted Brendon. 

Brendon glanced up at him and feebly smoked his cigarette. “Did you see his face?”

Dallon paused, flickering his eyes around as if playing a memory through his brain like a picture show. Trying to remember what Ryan Ross looked like. Brendon wished he had to do that. _Had_ to focus so he could remember Ryan Ross’s face. Right now, it didn’t seem like he could forget it if he tried. 

“His dad beat his ass and—” Brendon started to say ‘and fucked his leg’ but stopped, replaying the way Ryan had smiled, ducked his head, played with his stupid baby bible, and said ‘never told anyone that before.’ Brendon shut his mouth abruptly. Tried to come up with a new closer. “And he didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Nowhere else to go?” Dallon repeated like he couldn’t possibly be expected to believe such a thing. “I thought you said he had a girlfriend; why didn’t he just stay with her?”

His voice had raised and Brendon swallowed, glancing around Dallon to the door he was pressed against. He hissed, the strain in his voice present, “Would you quiet down? He’s just down the stairs.”

“I have thick walls,” Dallon replied stiffly. 

“No,” Brendon snapped. “You have a thick skull. We can talk about this later, okay?”

Dallon bared his teeth. “I don’t want to talk about this later.”

“ _Dallon_.”

Brendon was starting to get severely irritated. Sure, he loved Dallon. Of course he loved Dallon. Dallon was amazing. But good Lord, if he could just turn off that God-forsaken jealousy for five minutes so they could get the key, hand it off to Ryan, and get him out of the house. What if he heard them? Brendon had to shut this down and fast. He wouldn’t be able to bare it if Ryan heard this argument. 

“Give me the goddamn key so I can give it to ‘Vegas Boy’ down there, and then we can have a rational discussion about this when you’re not having some sort of fairy meltdown.”

Dallon’s eyes lit up. “Some _fairy_ melt—You think I'm—”

“Dallon for the love of God!” Brendon whisper-shouted. “Give me the damn key!” 

Dallon let himself slack instantly at the tone of voice Brendon had taken. That was a good thing. No matter how worked up he got, a desperate enough plea and Dallon Weekes turned to melted butter in Brendon’s hands. The taller man just made a small whine, something of a whimper, and folded his arms over his chest. 

“Okay?” Brendon tried, eyes big and begging. Eyes even Dallon Weekes couldn’t say no to. “We’ll talk about this later? Alright? The moment he leaves, we can talk about this. For however long you want, Dallon, you can yell at me about Ryan Ross. When he is out of the house. When you give me that key, we can talk about this.”

Dallon just scowled as he reached into his back pocket. “We better.”

Brendon watched him produce the small silver chain with a golden key attached to it. He blinked in surprise. He hadn’t been expecting that Dallon would have it on him; figured he’d have it tucked away somewhere in a drawer or something. A shoebox beneath the bed. Not in his back pocket. 

Had he known Brendon was coming?

Dallon held the key out to him, making it obvious he was ignoring Brendon’s gaze. 

“Well?” he asked. “You gonna take your key back or not?”

He flexed his fingers around the chain and brandished it at Brendon for him to come and fetch. Brendon just stared. He paused, took a small breath; cigarette dangling from his fingers at his side. He asked, the humor in his voice evident even to himself, “How long have you had that on you?”

Dallon appeared alarmed, as though he hadn’t been expecting that particular question. Looked almost floored by it in fact. He glanced between Brendon and the key in his fist and shifted from foot to foot. Hesitant. “Uh…”

Brendon stared at him expectantly. A small smile was starting to surface. “How long, Dal?”

“How long were you gone?” Dallon asked, not taking his stare from the key in his hand. 

“Three years,” Brendon answered, smiling a little wider. 

“So I guess three years then.”

Brendon’s heart did that flip in his chest. Dallon Weekes had been given that key right before Brendon left. Just before Brendon got in his taxi and headed to the train station to leave for training. He remembered when he had handed it over and said, a forced smile on his face, “Water my plants, won’t you?”

And Dallon Weekes, back when he had slicked hair and wore suits and taught English at a university, had stared back at him with a blank face. “Sure I will.”

They’d hugged then. Or, more accurately, Dallon had hugged him. Held him tight in a bone-crushing embrace. Had his mouth right against Brendon’s ear and said, so only he could hear, “Good luck.”

Not a ‘don’t die,’ not a ‘be safe out there,’ or an ‘I’ll miss you.’ Just a wish for luck as they’d parted. And Brendon’s smile had faltered when he patted Dallon firmly on the shoulder, squeezed him, and said, “Thanks, Dal.”

Brendon Urie had left for France that day. Left with no intentions of ever coming back. 

But there he was, three years later in Dallon Weekes’s bedroom with Ryan Ross in the living room a floor below. Dallon wasn’t in his suit anymore and his hair wasn’t slicked down. He had bags beneath his eyes and he was wearing that god-awful checkered shirt and khaki combination, standing in his socks, staring at Brendon with a worried expression, key in hand. 

God, he was such an idiot.

“C’mere,” Brendon said and he couldn’t suppress the small chuckle that slipped past his lips. Dallon stood in place, staring at Brendon, dumbfounded. What an idiot, idiot boy. Brendon laughed loudly, covering his mouth with a hand to keep it back. If Ryan hadn’t heard them arguing, he’d certainly heard that. Still though, Brendon waved the hand holding his cigarette toward him. Beckoned Dallon his way. Softer this time. “C’mere, Dal. C’mere.”

Dallon hesitated a second longer before he stepped over to Brendon. He only needed to take about two steps though, his strides longer than most. Brendon really hadn’t taken into consideration how tall Dallon was. When they kissed in the closet, he hadn’t needed to stand on his toes. Perhaps Dallon had bent down to reach him. 

“The key,” Brendon said and Dallon let out a tiny breath, shoulders slouching. Brendon almost thought he looked disappointed and the laughter bubbled inside him again. Dallon held his fist out and dropped the key into Brendon’s awaiting palm. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dallon mumbled as Brendon turned to walk around him and towards the door.

Brendon stopped behind Dallon, a few inches away, and a grin was dominating his face. Dallon really was such an idiot. He turned back to see Dallon still standing there, moping, and Brendon laughed. He said teasingly, “Dal.”

Dallon turned around to face him, mouth starting to open to form a coherent thought, but he couldn’t get a single word out before Brendon had grabbed him by the front of his signature checkered shirt and tugged him down. 

He wasn’t about to stand on his toes. Dallon would have to bend to meet him. 

Their lips made contact and Dallon was stiff against him for a second before he slacked, kissing back almost instantly. He loved Brendon. He so loved Brendon. Brendon wondered how long he had been loved and hadn’t noticed. Three years Dallon carried around that house key. How many of those years was he in love?

The thought should not be as terrifying as it was. But at the same time, how liberating. Being loved was so compelling. 

Love was so odd, wasn’t it? What was love? 

Brendon needed to figure it out. He’d thought he had all the time in the world. But as he felt Dallon’s mouth tightly pressed against his own, he realized there wasn’t any time at all. He’d all but run out. And if he was going to keep kissing Dallon behind closed doors, he seriously needed to come up with a definition. 

He liked kissing Dallon. Really, he did. And Dallon definitely liked kissing him. That was blatantly obvious by the way he pressed forward, tried to breathe as much of Brendon in as he could. 

The Gin Rickey was gone and Dallon tasted like Dallon always would. Clean and warm and indulgent. He kissed Brendon back with so much sweetness. Not as sweet as sugar though. Not by a long shot and Brendon wished he was. Still though, Dallon was compliant and affectionate when he kissed. Such a heartbreaker, that one. If he kissed anyone else in the world with that mouth, Brendon bet they would melt. Anyone else in the world; Dallon would have them wrapped around his finger. 

The way that he put a hand on Brendon’s forearm, dancing fingertips up his skin. Anyone else would have goosebumps. The way he wedged their bodies together the best he could, pushing them together even if they didn’t quite fit. Made it so Brendon could feel the heart thumping in his chest. The way Dallon breathed out through his nose in a sharp exhale. Like he’d never kissed anyone before. The way that he smiled into the kiss and parted his lips for more access. Kissed Brendon as if he loved him. Anyone else would have lost their mind.

Brendon pulled back, a smile on his face. Even if he wasn’t in love—and so far he wasn’t but that might change—Dallon was a good kisser. Can’t turn down a good kisser. Dallon pried his eyes open, blinking rapidly with a look that implied he couldn’t believe what had just occurred. There was a lopsided grin on his face, all toothy and white with those clean, warm lips of his parted and glistening. He looked at Brendon like he was in love. 

What an idiot. 

Brendon wiped his bottom lip with a thumb and pretended not to notice the way Dallon licked his own. He started smoking again and realized the cigarette was almost burnt out. He needed to light a new one. He swallowed, shut his eyes and opened them. Focused on Dallon. Tried to ignore how happy he looked. “When Ryan’s gone. Then we’ll talk. And you’re not allowed to be mad at me.”

Dallon was never allowed to be mad at Brendon. It was never his fault. But Dallon didn’t seem to think it offensive or wrong, even if it was. He only nodded his head and flattened his smile. “Yeah. Of course, Brendon. Of course.”

He was an idiot to be in love. The current definition of love: idiocy. What was love? Some hormone in your brain that made you a ditz. Clouded your judgment. Made you sway and made you stupid. Love was a liability. 

This was bad. 

Brendon nodded slowly but didn’t say anything else as he turned and pulled the bedroom door open. He hoped the walls were as thick as Dallon said they were. Even if they weren’t though, there was no way Ryan heard them kissing. 

Christ, what if he knew Dallon kissed him? What if he just _knew_? 

Brendon, flustered, wiped hurriedly at his mouth with the back of his hand as he climbed down the stairs. What to say. How did he pretend he hadn’t just kissed a man? No, no it was fine. Just… don’t be suspicious is all. That was it. 

He wondered if maybe Ryan could smell Dallon on him. He wiped at the front of his shirt. Realized he was still wearing his jacket despite the warmth of Dallon’s house and he shucked it off him as he reached the bottom of the steps. 

“Hey, Ry?” Brendon called out as he listened to the muted clunk of his oxfords on the carpet. 

“ _Ry_?” He heard Dallon’s small, offended voice behind him. Oh, he was going to hit Dallon Weekes if this kept up. He turned around and forced his jacket into Dallon’s hands to distract him. 

“Hold this for me, would you, Dal?” He flashed a grin. 

Dallon started to protest but didn’t say anything, only nodded and started to fold up Brendon’s jacket as they continued back down the stairs. 

Brendon focused his eyes on the couch when he reached the living room. It seemed that Ryan had tried to take his advice. Tried to make himself comfortable. It was obvious it hadn’t worked though and Brendon almost cracked up again at the sight of Ryan Ross in his suspenders—the ones he missed during the war—sitting upright and stiff with his hands on his knees on Dallon Weekes’s couch. He had a deep grimace on his face and furrowed brows. 

Brendon tried very, very hard not to laugh. 

“Hey,” he greeted again, coming slowly to a stop in front of the couch and Ryan’s eyes snapped over to him. The grimace vanished in an instant and was replaced with that nervous, scared smile. 

“Hi,” Ryan mumbled back. 

Brendon, doing his best not to think about how damn small Ryan looked on that massive couch, held up the key clenched in his hand. Dropped it so he hung onto the chain and the key dangled out of his fist. 

Ryan stared at it for a second and Brendon half expected him to say ‘is that it?’ but surely Ryan wasn’t that moronic. Luckily, he didn’t say anything of the sort. Just sat there, staring at it dripping out of Brendon’s palm, before he asked, “Are you sure you’re alright with this?”

Brendon almost said ‘of course I am, you can have anything you want in my house.’ Almost went on to say ‘sleep in my bed, let me give you baths, have a spare key, drink my coffee, and read my paper, let me sing to you, and leave your baby bible wherever the hell you want. Make my home yours’ but he managed to bite his tongue. 

“Yeah I—” Brendon started but Ryan raised a finger to signal him to be quiet. 

“Dallon,” Ryan said with more conviction and Brendon widened his eyes, turning to see Dallon over his shoulder, standing behind him and clutching Brendon’s jacket in his hands. “Are you alright with me taking your key?”

Ryan Ross asking Dallon permission to take the key; what could that mean? Was he sucking up perhaps? Trying to make Dallon like him? Or was he just nice? It was hard to tell with someone like Ryan Ross. No one that soft-spoken and gratifying could actually exist. Surely not. Ryan Ross was such a mystery. Brendon wished he could understand better. 

Wished he had a definition not only for love, but for Ryan Ross as well. 

“Oh,” Dallon voiced, also surprised that Ryan was talking to him. “Yeah, sure. I don’t mind. Besides, I’m not the one staying with him.”

The chuckle he let out was sharp and Brendon squinted his eyes, slightly pained by the anguished sound. 

Ryan nodded slowly to himself and chewed at his lip. Brendon surveyed the movement, the distressed expression on Ryan’s face, and choked down the lump in his throat. The second time Ryan spoke, it was directed at Brendon. “I can have this?”

Brendon rolled his eyes and extended his hand to give the key over. “I didn’t bring it out just to show you.”

Ryan held both his hands out for it expectantly. Like he was a little boy accepting a live animal from his parent. The key dropped into his hand and—as if it could escape—he clenched his fist around it. 

Brendon smiled at him fondly and hoped that Dallon didn’t notice.

“Thanks,” Ryan said gently, quieter than he needed to be. He glanced up at Brendon. Genuine. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Brendon said, trying to keep his voice high and light. Tried to make his smile wide. He smoked some more and Ryan’s expression faltered. He had a problem with the smoking. Brendon knew he did. Sunflower seeds felt like a good option. Brendon should buy some sunflower seeds. 

There was a beat of silence and Dallon just stood behind Brendon, arms folded, staring at Ryan. 

Brendon cleared his throat. All eyes were on him. Dallon and Ryan in the same room, both staring at him. This did not bode well for his smoking habit. He took a sharp drag and coughed out small clouds with his words. “Ryan, why don’t you go ahead and head out?”

Ryan’s eyes kept him in place. He waited for a beat before nodding. He sounded disappointed. Brendon didn’t blame him; he was disappointed too. “Right, yeah. I will.”

“You know how to get back to the house?” Brendon confirmed before Ryan had a chance to move. 

“Yeah,” he answered. “I can figure it out.”

That wasn’t very reassuring. But Brendon didn’t have time to draw Ryan out a map or walk him all around Clearfield. Not when Dallon Weekes was standing behind him, arms folded around his own jacket, fuming. Brendon just smoked his cigarette and didn’t say anything. 

Ryan forced a flat smile before he turned back to Dallon. Held out a hand and Dallon stiffened slightly in surprise before he took it to shake. 

“It was nice to meet you,” Ryan said. 

“Likewise,” Dallon said. Brendon hoped Ryan couldn’t tell how bitter he sounded. 

They parted hands, both taking a step away from each other, Ryan immediatly looking over at Brendon once more. His eyes always came back to Brendon. His grin had turned awkward and didn’t sit right on his face. Brendon hated the way that smile looked. It wasn’t like Ryan’s others. It wasn’t his usual nervous simper where he ducked his head or darted his eyes away. This smile was strained and Brendon knew he was the cause of it. 

“I’ll see you around, Bren,” Ryan said. 

“Yeah,” Brendon answered. “I’ll see you tonight.”

For a split second, the smile turned real. “Right. See you tonight.”

That settled at least some fear in Brendon’s stomach. The fear that the moment he was out of the apartment, Ryan Ross might go running. Surely he wouldn’t. What if he would though? What if he planned to pack up and leave without ever telling Brendon? He wouldn’t, would he? Ryan wasn’t the sort to do that. Brendon just gave him a key to the apartment for God's sake. Ryan had to know that meant Brendon wanted him to stay. 

Brendon wanted him to stay. 

Desperately, in fact, he wanted Ryan to stay in his apartment. Sleep in his bed and make him coffee and read his dumb baby bible on the couch. That was pathetic. Brendon should not want him to stay. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. But he did. 

Who was that going to help? Not Brendon, that was for damn sure. It was bad news to have a heterosexual man rooming with him while he was off with homosexuals in his free time. There was only so long the arrangement could work. Only so long before Ryan found out. 

Brendon would give anything for that to never happen. Ryan would resent him for it. Despise him. He would never want to talk to Brendon again. Ryan had made a big enough fuss when he thought Brendon had snuck off to sleep with a girl. Brendon couldn’t imagine what he would say when he found out it was a boy Brendon had been feeling up. A boy that laced his neck with those bruises. 

A man would be shot if the army found out about his homosexual activities. Killed. If anyone had found out about Shane, Brendon would be dead. Ryan probably had the same ideology as the others. He was in war after all. All war boys were the same. 

He’d want Brendon dead. Maybe he’d want to be the one to kill him. 

Brendon didn’t know if he could take that. Scratch that. He _knew_ he couldn’t.

Ryan dipped his head one last time and—with the key’s chain wrapped around his wrist—waved a hand in parting before he wandered out the door. Brendon didn’t watch him leave and flinched when the door clattered shut. 

Dallon waited for Brendon to speak and Brendon waited for him. No one said anything. 

“Where’s Vegas Boy off to?” Dallon asked, eyes still lingering on the door Ryan had left through. Brendon missed his presence in the room. 

“I told him earlier to go into town. Take a look see,” Brendon said and he crossed the room to sit on Dallon’s massive couch. He tugged off his shoes so he could fold his legs beneath him. “Find a job of some type.”

“A job,” Dallon repeated. He folded Brendon’s jacket in his arms. “I thought you said he was visiting.”

“He is,” Brendon replied. “Don’t just stand there. Come sit with me.”

Dallon stayed in place, clenching onto Brendon’s jacket, scowling, and tapping a foot on the floor. Dull thunks hit Brendon’s ears every time he did so. “If he’s just visiting, what’s he need a job for?”

“He can’t just sit at my house all day,” Brendon answered. He leaned back on the couch; sank into the cushions that were a bit too soft for his liking. Drowned in pillows. 

“How long is he staying? He doesn’t need a job if he’s just visiting,” Dallon said, sounding distressed. 

Brendon rubbed at his temple. His cigarette was burned out. He stood up and crossed the living room to wander into the kitchen to find the trashcan. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

He could hear Dallon’s gasp of indignation from the living room and then the thuds of socks across the ground as Dallon followed after him. “You haven’t talked about—”

“I said you weren’t allowed to be mad,” Brendon interrupted. He glanced up at Dallon across the room. “Where’s your trashcan?”

“How can I not be mad?” Dallon ignored the second question entirely. “You _liked_ this boy.”

“I _never_ liked Ryan,” Brendon growled, opening the cabinet beneath the sink. Where was the damn trash can?

“You were going to go to Vegas with him!” Dallon had the decency not to shout but his voice was certainly raising. Brendon wondered how thick the walls really were. If Breezy and her husband next door could hear their domestic dispute. “And now? Now he’s staying at your house. He came all the way from Vegas just to see you.”

Brendon chuckled bitterly. “Maybe he just likes Utah.”

“He came for _you_ , Brendon.” 

Brendon bit the inside of his lip. Hard. He was getting a headache and his heart couldn’t seem to slow down. Where was that damn trash can? 

Ryan Ross came to Clearfield just for him. All the way from Vegas—everything he knew and everything the loved—so he could see Brendon. Brendon’s intestines were tying themselves into knots. 

“Yeah, well,” Brendon said. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it Dallon. I don’t like him now and I didn’t like him then. Besides, he’s straight.”

Two of those were lies. 

Brendon needed to learn not to lie. Desperately, he needed to learn that. 

“Another reason he shouldn’t be here,” Dallon shot back. “What’ll he do when he finds out about you? Or worse, about us?”

Brendon made his shudder as unnoticeable as possible. He really didn’t like that choice of wording. Dallon was not batting a thousand with his word choice lately. Calling Brendon ‘mine’ the first day he was back from war. Owned by the government, by the army, and then Dallon thought it was alright to swoop right in after. Pretend he owned Brendon. And then he’d said ‘I want you’ in the closet. That wasn’t what love was. It wasn’t a possession. 

And now he was saying ‘us’. There was no ‘us’. There was Brendon and there was Dallon and sometimes they were the sort of people that kissed in closets in gay clubs. There was no ‘us’.

Brendon started twisting the ring on his finger. The one that said _Your Heart is Mine_. He had half a mind to take it off and throw it at Dallon. Just scream 'take it then, why don't you!' but he didn't. Just kept twisting the ring on his finger and searching despairingly for a trashcan to throw away his burned out cigarette. 

“Dallon, we’ve kissed how many times?” Brendon straightened up, holding his crumpled cigarette tightly. “Two? Three times, maybe?”

Dallon frowned. “It’s been more than that.”

“Let’s count, shall we?” Brendon proposed. “We kissed at my apartment. Or well, more accurately, you kissed me.”

Dallon averted his eyes guiltily. 

“And then I kissed you in the closet, and just now, upstairs. So that’s three. We’ve kissed three times.”

“You count the closet as just one kiss?” Dallon asked, surprised. He cracked a tiny smile. “That’s at least five.”

He should not be trying to make Brendon laugh. He should not be smiling and making jokes about how many times they kissed one another. Still though, Brendon grinned reluctantly. “It’s three.”

Dallon shrugged, sighing longingly. “If you say so.”

Brendon kept grinning before shaking his head. “What I’m trying to say, is we’ve kissed three times in the span of two days. I hardly think that calls for an ‘us’ already. That’s all I’m saying.”

Dallon’s face fell and Brendon regretted saying that. He just couldn’t seem to say the right thing these days. Lies and wrong words.

“Listen, Dal—” Brendon started with a sigh. Tried to change the subject back to what was important. Ryan Ross’s presence in his apartment. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll figure it all out, okay? But right now he’s just a friend going through a bit of a rough patch and I’m helping him out. Which is what a good friend does. And I’m a pretty great friend, I won’t lie.”

He smiled at Dallon, an attempt at humor and Dallon—luckily for Brendon—let his frown fade and a grin surface. “You are.”

“Thank you.”

“But I do have a question,” Dallon said and Brendon nodded for him to ask. Anything. “Where does he sleep?”

_Oh god._ Brendon couldn’t lie about that. “My bed.”

All the progress they made completely vanished into thin air and the fury was back into Dallon’s blue eyes. “He _what_!”

“No,” Brendon snapped, and it took everything he had not to start shouting. “No. No. Calm down. Five seconds, listen to me. For five goddamn seconds, Dallon, get your head out of your ass and listen to me. Good God! Look me in the eyes. He’s injured. He’s in pain. And yes, he’s sleeping in my bed. But I am not— _not_ Dallon, pay attention—sleeping with him. I sleep on the couch; he sleeps in the bed. Two different places. Hell, I’ve barely touched him the entire time he’s been here.”

How much touching did a bath count for? They technically hadn’t touched other than that. Other than when Ryan Ross sat in his briefs in Brendon’s bathtub and Brendon stroked across every strip of bare skin he could. That wasn’t… touching though. That was just—That was friends helping friends. Like the war, that’s all it was. Oh, if Dallon only knew what Brendon had done in war. 

“And this should not be as big a deal as you are making it out to be,” Brendon went on. “I am helping a friend! Why are you making this out to be something it isn’t?” 

He let out a sigh and fiddled with the crummy cigarette in his hand. He really needed that trash can.

“I’m sorry,” Dallon said and he sounded as much. 

“Damn right you are,” Brendon snapped. 

“But it’s just that—” Dallon wiped his nose and hugged Brendon’s jacket a little tighter to his chest, a little closer to his heart, shifting from foot to foot. 

“He’s one of my only friends, Dal,” Brendon reasoned more gently. “I care about him.” 

“You have plenty of friends,” Dallon tried. He set Brendon’s jacket on the back of one of his kitchen chairs quickly as if it had burned him when it touched too close. 

“Really?” Brendon scoffed. He tilted his head, cocking his hip. “Name my friends, Dal.”

Dallon huffed out, determination evident in his face. “There’s me.”

“You’re my best friend,” Brendon said to which Dallon beamed. 

“And Jon.”

“Jon’s my boss,” Brendon deadpanned. “And he hates me.”

“No he doesn—”

“Keep going.”

“Okay, well,” Dallon paused. “There’s Eric.”

“Eric plays the piano when I sing,” Brendon replied. “That’s work. Don’t get me wrong, Eric’s a great guy. But he’s not a friend of mine. So? Got any more?”

“Yes,” Dallon retorted. “There’s—uh… I… Well—”

The silence that followed was answer enough. 

Brendon finished for him. “Ryan.”

Dallon blinked up at him with those heartbreaker blue eyes. Round and beseeching. 

“You and Ryan,” Brendon reiterated. “Those are my friends. To give you some perspective. I have two friends. And they’re you and Ryan. So I’m sorry if I don’t want to chuck one of them out on the street.”

Brendon really hadn’t thought so much about how depressing that was. His two best friends—only friends in actuality—and he’d made the mistake of kissing one and letting the other sleep in his bed. Dallon wasn’t the idiot when it came to love. Brendon was. 

“I was in France for three years, Dal. Without you,” Brendon continued when Dallon didn’t speak. “But I _was_ with Ryan. And for three years—every day, every night, believe me when I say I had plenty of access—I didn’t fuck him. So why would I decide I wanted to now?” 

Dallon blinked, long and slow, appearing scandalized. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His cheeks were rosy. He didn’t have anything else to say. Goddamn right he didn’t. 

Brendon turned away from him and finally spotted the trashcan in the corner of the room between the dining table and the counter. He marched over and chunked the cigarette while feeling around in his pockets for another one only to realize he was out. He groaned out loud. 

“Brendon.”

“What?” He sounded mad to his own ears.

“I’m sorry that I—”

Brendon scowled down into the trash can at his cigarette. “It’s fine, Dal.”

“Well, it’s just that…”

Brendon felt the pressure of a hand on his shoulder. He straightened, pivoted to face Dallon. Dallon's hand didn’t leave his shoulder, sitting there, weighing Brendon down. 

“Ryan’s a good guy,” Dallon said quietly. 

Brendon didn’t say anything but he thought to himself, _yeah, he really is._

“And I know that you like him. Or liked, I don’t know. I don’t blame you for that. I just don’t want to—I don’t want you to—” Dallon let out a heavy sigh. “I like you, Brendon. I like you a lot. I mean, it took me three years to figure it out. Three years of not seeing you every day and not… not hearing your laugh or seeing you smile or hearing you sing. And now that… I don’t wanna mess this up.”

Brendon felt his stomach clench. _Ouch._ Dallon was in love with him. Tragically in love with him. 

Brendon let out a sharp exhale. The breath that left his mouth was quivering and his chest heaved. The words that rolled off his tongue, while they were true, had never felt so much like a lie. “You know I like you too, Dal.”

And he did. He liked Dallon so much. And Dallon was in love with him. Everything he ever could have wanted in the form of Dallon Weekes. That heartbreaker boy that anyone else in the world would fall head over heels for. He chose Brendon. Dallon chose Brendon. 

Dallon didn’t say anything else, didn’t ask permission. He didn’t need to. Just tilted his head down to connect his lips with Brendon’s. The hand on Brendon’s shoulder shifted, moved itself up his collar to rest on his neck so Dallon could deepen the kiss. 

Brendon let him. 

Dallon’s lips were pillowy soft. As soft as the couch cushions Brendon had felt himself drowning in. He let Dallon drown him in the kiss. Let Dallon take in a sharp breath, breathe Brendon in and hold tighter to his neck. His other hand was on his waist, bunching up the fabric of Brendon’s seersucker shirt. 

Brendon looped his arms around the back of Dallon’s neck. Let himself be pulled closer. 

Dallon broke away and Brendon chased the warmth of his mouth. The smirk Dallon had on his face was baiting. “So that’s number four then by your count.”

Brendon laughed hoarsely and mingled his fingers in Dallon’s hair. Watched his digits play with the tan locks. He flicked his tongue out to lick his bottom lip. Let Dallon watch him, mesmerized as he did so. 

Dallon’s thumb swiped over Brendon’s cheek before sliding to the back of his head. The other hand was firm on his hip. He smiled softly. 

“You’re very pretty,” Dallon mumbled. 

Brendon laughed loudly. He pushed his head into the crook of Dallon’s neck to hide his face. Breathed Dallon’s scent in like Dallon had done to him. It only seemed fair. The smell was nice. Nice, sure. But it wasn’t home. 

“Stop,” Brendon demanded, voice muffled by Dallon’s collar. “I’m not a dame.”

Dallon kept his mouth by the shell of Brendon’s ear. His breath tickled as he traced his fingers up Brendon’s side, scratching across his ribs through the shirt, and Brendon chuckled again, squirming in Dallon’s hold. 

“Quit it,” Brendon warned. _Quit falling in love with me. Quit trying to make me fall in love with you._

“Make me,” Dallon challenged, grinning that devilish, shit-eating grin of his. 

Brendon kissed him again. Just to see. 

Dallon let him. Soft and slow and Dallon was clean and warm against him. This was nice. Dallon was a great kisser. And with the way he was running his fingers through Brendon’s hair? Up his side and around to the small of his back? Held Brendon flush against him? Anyone else would have lost their mind.

Anyone else in the world would have been in love with Dallon Weekes. Brendon wished he was. 

Because it occurred to him as he let Dallon’s hands roam over his spine and Dallon’s lips press against his own. 

Dallon could break his heart, sure. But Brendon could shatter his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad this didn't take as long! It actually would have been out yesterday had my dumbass dog not sliced my finger open with her claw, thus making everything I do twice as hard. Love her though.   
> Thanks for reading!


	21. A Sweet Tooth Causes Heart Aches

As Ryan Ross walked down a street in Clearfield, Utah, he strung a chain around his neck that reminded him too much of his dog tag and wondered if Brendon Urie fell in love with girls that had crazy blue eyes. 

What made someone beautiful to Brendon? Did eyes really matter to him? If they did, what color did he like? Crazy blue eyes? Did they matter? Or was Brendon perhaps drawn to green eyes? Or hazel eyes? What shade of brown did he prefer if he did? 

Certainly not whiskey. No one wanted to get drunk on whiskey eyes, Ryan knew that all too well. 

What made someone beautiful in the eyes of Brendon Urie? Was it in the face? Or the body? Did they need full lips to match his own? Brendon Urie had lips made to be kissed, it seemed only appropriate for him to chose someone who could perform that task well. It would be a crime if Brendon Urie fell in love with someone who couldn't kiss. Perhaps hair color mattered? Brunette or blonde? Did he care?

Dimples or freckles? Narrow noses or broad? Sharp eyebrows or thick? A wheezing laugh or a bold one? What made someone worth loving?

Ryan had never given it much thought. What made someone beautiful. All he knew was that whatever qualities made someone loveable, Brendon Urie managed to check every box. If Ryan Ross liked boys. 

Ryan toyed with the chain around his neck, constricting and tight and it probably would have been smarter to wrap it around his wrist like a bracelet but it felt the appropriate way to wear it was around his neck. Hung across his throat and down his chest so the key rested on his heart. 

It made him miss his dog tag, hidden away in his pack. Brendon wore his dog tag, Ryan had noticed that. Noticed the silver chain that disappeared beneath Brendon's shirt. Ryan hadn't said anything about it but he wondered. Was curious as to why Brendon felt the need to keep it on. Curious about a lot of things Brendon Urie did.

Ryan fixed the chain again and did his best to tuck it beneath his shirt away from the human eye. So the cold metal pressed against his bare flesh underneath his shirt and he shivered.

What a misplaced tourist Ryan was; all thin white shirt in the biting cold, black suspenders and no coat, dress pants and dulled shoes; a key to a house he didn’t live in strung around his neck beneath his shirt. How misplaced indeed. 

He needed to get a handle on that. That out of place feeling that followed him everywhere he went like a shadow. Didn’t feel at home in Vegas in his own house. Didn’t fit in to Clearfield in Brendon’s home and certainly not in to Dallon Weekes’s. The only place he really felt like he belonged was war. How depressing was that? 

War was not home. War should not have been his.

He walked down the street Dallon Weekes lived in, back the way he and Brendon had come with dragging legs and a heavy feeling weighing his chest down. It wasn’t such a hard route to follow. He knew where he was going. Vaguely. Sort of. He’d tried his best to pay attention when he and Brendon first headed this way but it was hard to focus on which direction he was supposed to be going when he had a profusely smoking Brendon Urie strolling along beside him. 

Hard for one to focus when there was a Brendon Urie nearby. 

Ryan kept replaying the events at Dallon Weekes’s house through his brain. How out of his depth he’d felt sitting on that big couch, sinking into those cushions while Brendon and Dallon had gone upstairs to argue about him.

He knew it was about him. He knew it was; it had to be. 

Ryan wasn’t welcome in Dallon’s home, no matter how much Brendon persisted he was. He knew when he was wanted. Or, more accurately, when he wasn’t. 

He had been able to hear the muffled shouting at one point. Just slightly though, until it had calmed down. It hadn’t sounded like a fight so much. Just an argument between friends. Ryan used to argue with Spencer like that. A shouting match over who could shout louder but never an actual _fight_. Not that he could ever hate Spencer, or stay mad at him for long. He never could. Ryan would always yell and Spencer would yell back and eventually they would stop. They’d be best friends again; that’s how it always was. 

Ryan thought back to the last conversation he had with Spencer on the phone before he fled to Clearfield. Ran away to Brendon. That hadn’t really been a fight had it? There wasn’t any shouting. No raised voices. Only tired remarks and scowls. And Spencer had said something Ryan hadn’t liked and he hadn’t even tried to argue. He had hung up the phone. 

And somehow, that was worse than any fight they’d ever had. 

Ryan knew it was Dallon that had been upset when he heard the shouting upstairs. It had been Dallon’s voice that raised through the walls. Brendon’s Spencer. But of course Dallon was upset. Who wouldn’t be? Some random asshole littered in black and blue splotches appearing on his doorstep, trailing his best friend. It was cause for concern, Ryan knew that. 

But that didn’t excuse the way Dallon had looked at Brendon. Nothing could excuse that.

Ryan understood the harsh glances at himself. Understood the glares and scowls that Dallon had sent his way and frankly, it was a lot nicer than he had expected. Dallon seemed like a good enough guy. Brendon was lucky to have friends that cared so much about him. 

How would Spencer Smith react if Ryan decided to drag Brendon Urie to _his_ door? 

What sort of friend would Spencer Smith be?

Would Spencer smile, offer Brendon in for a beer to brag about the good old days of war? Try his best to relate? Or would he hate Brendon on principle, bare his teeth, and shake his head whenever Brendon spoke? Would Spencer Smith be a good friend? 

The old Spencer might have been. The Spencer that Ryan knew three years ago. The new model of Spencer would probably look Brendon up and down, shrug, and close the door in their faces. 

Ryan heaved out a breath on the street in Clearfield and wavered in his steps. He missed Spencer. Maybe he should call him. Tell him what Clearfield was like. A nice town. Tell Spencer he was confused as all hell. That he didn't know what to do and he was sleeping in his best friend's bed. And maybe he could tell Spencer that the worst part was Ryan knew that if he liked boys, he would like Brendon. No. That wasn’t a good idea. Spencer wouldn't have anything good to say about that. He wasn’t going to call Spencer. 

Dallon was a better friend than most and Brendon was damn lucky to have him. At least Dallon cared enough to get upset.

But that still didn’t excuse the way he had looked at Brendon. The same way a guy watched after at a dame he knew he had to have. Woeful and forlorn. Staring after Brendon when he knew Brendon couldn’t see with those crazy blue eyes of his. Hopeless. 

Ryan wasn’t an idiot. He’d seen it. It was the same way he looked at Brendon. Or it would be. If he liked boys. 

But he was sure it wasn’t like that. Dallon and he, they just appreciated the way Brendon looked. Appreciated those feminine features and full lips and evil, black eyes. Who wouldn’t? Brendon was beautiful. 

If Ryan Ross liked boys.

Dallon was just an aggressively protective friend. That’s all it was. Still though, an uncomfortable feeling had settled in Ryan’s gut and he couldn’t seem to will it away. 

Dallon Weekes had seemed to be a nice enough guy. He’d forced on a smile when he shook Ryan’s hand which was more than most would have done. And he’d been holding Brendon’s jacket when they came down the stairs. How had he gotten hold of it? Ryan could have held his jacket for him if he wanted. Ryan could hold a jacket as well as anyone else. 

That nervous sickness kept spreading through Ryan’s body as he walked back towards the coffee house. What was he doing again? Was he supposed to be doing something?

Hadn’t Brendon suggested getting a job? He had; made it sound like a grand idea. But why would Ryan need to do that? He was visiting. He was _visiting_ Clearfield to see Brendon and then he was supposed to—

Was he supposed to go home afterward? He was, wasn’t he? He didn’t want to do that. 

_Fuck_ , he didn’t want to go home. 

Some ugly house in Las Vegas, Nevada that his father had bought him when he was eighteen. Legal to drink and legal to live alone. That wasn’t why though. George didn’t have any legitimate trust or faith or pride in his son. He just wanted him out of the house. 

Ryan was thankful he could get away to his own sanctuary but he always had to wonder; didn’t his father miss his punching bag?

Ryan’s house in Las Vegas was good. It was a neat place by anyone's standards. There was a bedroom that was his own. A comfortable bed he slept in. And a living room—half of a living room anyway, it was just a dining table in the middle that could only seat two people—and a kitchen that he was supposed to marry a woman to cook in. And a bathroom with a sink that had hot water so he could splash his face and force his senses back to reality. And it was all his. 

Sort of. 

His father paid for the house but he got to live in it, didn’t he? So it was his. Halfway. In a sense it was. 

That didn’t matter though; who owned what or the technicalities of it. What made something yours or someone else’s. Ryan Ross loved his house. He had. But that wasn’t home these days, was it? That hadn’t been home in three years. 

No matter how neat his house was, how comfy the bed was or how well the hot water worked, it wasn’t home. It never would be again and Ryan wondered if it really ever had been. Once maybe, that house in Las Vegas had been home. When he laid in a bed with a girl wrapped around him by the name of Elizabeth Anne Berg. It had felt like home then. 

But it wouldn’t be that anymore and it never could be again. Ryan wondered if Spencer realized what he had when he started dating Z. Realized he’d stolen a home from Ryan; swept it right out from under him. Even if Spencer had known, would he care?

Brendon was lucky to have someone like Dallon Weekes. Ryan bet that Dallon wouldn’t take a home away from Brendon willingly. If he did, he’d feel sorry. Ryan bet he’d beg for forgiveness if he ever did something like that. 

That train of thought then prompted the question; what was Brendon’s home? Not that apartment in Clearfield, no matter how quaint and cozy it was. Brendon didn’t consider that home. Ryan had known that the moment he walked inside.

Perhaps Dallon couldn’t take home away from Brendon. After all, Brendon had been looking at Dallon too. Maybe Dallon couldn’t take home away from Brendon because he was it. Maybe Dallon Weekes was Brendon’s home. 

Z had been Ryan’s. 

And then Ryan had to wonder if _he_ had ever been anyone’s home. Probably not. Who would want Ryan Ross for a home? No one wanted to get drunk on whiskey eyes. 

Ryan fixed Brendon’s key around his neck. A home he didn’t live in. 

And still. Brendon had asked him to stay. 

Home wasn’t Z; not anymore. It hadn’t been for three years. 

Home was a dirty poncho in France with all those pretty lights of little French towns illuminating the world around him when Brendon Urie slept at his side. That’s what home was. War. 

But the war was long since over. Going on two weeks now for Ryan Ross. Warless. Felt like he was a smoker trying to rid his addiction. War was his drug of choice. 

He had fled war and gone back to Las Vegas. Why? Because there was nowhere else to go but Nowhere. God, Ryan wished he had gone to Nowhere earlier. 

What would Brendon Urie say about Ryan’s home in Vegas? Would he ever want to see it? Ryan had always surmised about going down to the strip with Z when it was finished but maybe he could take Brendon down to Vegas to show it to him instead. 

Brendon might like that. Ryan knew he would. Walking Brendon Urie around his own home town, pointing out buildings he knew and people he’d never met before. That would be a dream. He had loved it when Brendon showed him around Clearfield. Loved hearing every detail about where Brendon lived. Loved it and memorized it for later. Maybe Ryan could show the same hospitality in Las Vegas. 

He wondered if Brendon would like his tour as much as he liked Brendon’s. 

If perhaps Brendon would want to go back to Vegas with him at all. Just to visit. Just for a while. Like Ryan was in Utah. Brendon could stay for a few weeks and then leave. He could come over to the house Ryan’s father paid for. He could sleep in Ryan’s bed where Ryan used to with Z and Ryan would sleep on the couch. 

Brendon Urie sleeping in his bed. 

Again, Ryan had a hard time walking a straight line on the sidewalk. 

Brendon could stay in Ryan’s house and they could go to some stupid coffee shop in Vegas instead. Compare it to the one in Clearfield. Ryan bet the one in Clearfield was better. Everything in Clearfield was better than Vegas. Las Vegas was a shit place. It always had been. Why had it taken Ryan so long to realize that? Clearfield was better. 

At least Clearfield had Brendon. 

Brendon would stay for a few weeks, sleep in Ryan’s bed and sing to him and drink coffee and then they’d go their separate ways and they would—

Well, Brendon would go back to Clearfield and sing like Frank Sinatra in a speakeasy. 

And Ryan? Ryan didn’t know what he would do. Didn’t know what he was doing now as he hobbled around Clearfield with a key around his neck that he couldn’t stop playing with. 

What was he supposed to be looking for again? Was he supposed to be looking for anything? A job, Brendon had proposed. Right. That didn’t sound so bad. That would give him an excuse to stay. 

But really, how long did he expect to sleep in Brendon’s bed undisturbed before the world found a way to take it away from him? The world had a way of doing that. Sweeping homes out from under him left and right. Took away Z. Took away Spencer. Even his dad was a day away from death. The world kept changing things up on him. He needed to tell the world to stop spinning. It wasn't doing him any good.

What was his plan? Had he ever had one? He felt like at one point he knew what he was going to do. Planned his life past the next day. He had always been that way. Needed every detail to be plotted out and perfected. And then he went to France. He went to Normandy and Nancy and Metz and all the little places in between and he'd met Brendon Urie, the most compulsive person he would ever know. 

Brendon didn’t need a plan. Never thought past the next minute. He shot when he wanted to shoot and when he saw something he wanted to take, he took it. Ryan had never met someone who took rings off of corpses before. Not until Brendon Urie. 

Not that there was a lot of planning in war. There wasn’t. Most men could barely plan their next meal, much less what came after yesterday. No matter how much of a perfectionist Ryan Ross was before, you can’t plan anything in a war. 

Guys would joke about what they’d do when the war ended. But that’s all they really were. Jokes. No one thought they’d live past tomorrow. Much less out of the war. 

Brendon had joked one day that he would be a barber. All the men had gotten a kick out of that. Ryan wondered if he had been serious. 

Everyone _hoped_ they’d live. See a corpse on the field and think, ‘but that’ll never be me. I won’t die that way.’ And then one of the men in their squadron would get hit. It’d be one of their own they were sending off on a cot, limp body and glossy open eyes. And it just sort of hit, dense in the gut and the chest. _Oh._

_I’m gonna die here._

Brendon never seemed to mind much. Never seemed too put off by death. Ryan wondered what exactly had numbed him so quickly to the violence. But he distinctly remembered one day. A battle in Normandy. January 15, 1943. A few months after Brendon Urie had killed a man in Normandy. 

Brendon wasn’t so upset at having blood in his hair that day. He always seemed to have dried blood in his hair at that point. Slicked through several locks. He never acted like he minded it. Kept it out of his eyes at least. No one could mind blood so long as it kept the hair from your eyes. 

Men were exhausted and they were sweating and panting and more than Brendon alone had blood somewhere on them. Ryan made sure to keep clean. The benefits of shooting with your eyes closed. Never got blood on you. Not a spec of cherry red to be seen on his person. And still, he felt the dirtiest of any of them. 

They lost someone that day in June. William Beckett; Ryan remembered his name. He was a good enough guy. Everyone in war was a decent guy at least. You were fighting for your country. Dying for a cause. That at least made you decent. Beckett had a fine smile and every now and then he had told a joke that made someone laugh. He knew how to use a gun and Ryan had liked him. 

Then he got shot in the head and there wasn’t a lot anyone could do about that. 

Some men got shot in the head. That’s how things go. 

They loaded his body up onto a stretcher and wandered off. They had closed his eyes and if it weren't for the gaping hole in his forehead, you might think he was sleeping. But no one with a hole in their brain was just taking a nap. 

Ryan didn’t follow after those men to find out where they took him. He hadn’t known Beckett well enough to follow. Couldn’t mourn a guy he’d only ever talked to twice. 

There were fifteen or so men that stayed behind, picking up spilled items and cleaning their guns, before they got up to walk again. Four of those men weren’t in Ryan’s squadron, and they weren't alive either. 

Four corpses were strewn across the ground in varying positions. 

No one had bothered to touch them; not too much excitement about touching dead people. No one was eager to grab a dead man. No one except for Dan Pawlovich. He was sitting a ways from Ryan and Brendon, staring at a dead man with narrowed eyes. Thoughtful. Debating what exactly his next move would be.

It took a moment for him to stand. With a heavy grunt of indignation, Dan pushed himself up from his seated position and strode over to a body that belonged to a man he’d never known and never would. 

He crouched beside it and looked it over, hanging his arms over his knees. His palms were smeared with dirt. Ryan had watched him carefully as he did so, a few yards back from Dan, standing with his arms crossed and his bag at his feet. Brendon was sitting on the ground beside him, legs folded. 

Brendon was humming a song to himself that no one but he knew the words to and wiped at the stained sweat on his cheek. It ran pink down the side of his face, tinted from the blood in his hair. 

Dan muttered something to himself Ryan and Brendon couldn’t hear from so far away and then, with no further hesitation, used his bare hands to pry open the mouth of the corpse. 

The crack its jaw made as it broke was sickening and Ryan’s eyes bugged impossibly big from his skull in shock. 

Dan Pawlovich just broke a corpse. He tore open the mouth of a dead man. The body was barely two hours old and Dan had already ruined it. 

Dan wasn’t disgusted with himself; he wasn’t repulsed. He didn’t pull back in horror by what his own hands had done. If anything, he smirked in satisfaction as he tucked a hand into his pants pocket to produce his pliers.

Ryan continued to stare when Dan shoved the metal claws into the mouth of the corpse, past the thickened blood that had barely oozed out when they jaw broke. 

Another revolting crack as he pulled the tooth out. He held it up with the pliers proudly, his smirk growing wider. The tooth glinted in the light of the evening sun.

“Is that gold?” Brendon asked in awe from the ground beside Ryan. Ryan didn’t say a thing, simply stared. He couldn’t form words. Brendon went on, sounding wonderstruck, “How much you think you could sell that for? Twenty dollars at least, I bet. Maybe more. Damn.”

Ryan tried to force his mouth to say something back, anything, but it felt as though his jaw was broken too. It wouldn’t close right. 

“Pawlovich!” Brendon shouted across the dirt ground. 

Dan cast a glance over at him, uninterested. He used his bare hands to take the gold tooth from the end of the pliers and push it into his pocket. Away from greedy eyes and greedier fingers. “Yeah, Urie?”

“That a gold tooth you grabbed?” Brendon called. 

Dan sneered arrogantly as he stood, brushing off his knees. “Sure as hell is. Jealous you didn’t catch it first?”

Jealous? Of a stolen _tooth_? How could anyone be jealous of a gold tooth? No matter how much it might be worth, that was disgusting. Ryan tried not to make his repulsion too obvious. Couldn’t risk letting the other men know how his stomach turned at the sight. 

“No,” Brendon responded back blankly and that was answer enough. 

Dan didn’t feel the need to argue and Brendon didn’t feel the need to give him a reason to. They stared at each other across the dirty ground for a moment, Dan standing with a gold tooth in his pocket, the root stained red where it had been ripped from the gum, and Brendon sat beside Ryan, hands folded in his lap. 

A few seconds of silence and Dan let out a tiny huff, shook his head and stalked away to another group of men. Men who would care more about his gold tooth than Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross did. 

Mike Naran acted like it was the greatest find since dinosaur bones. But really, what made a human tooth so different? Both just bones. Parts of dead things that weren’t worth much anymore. Nothing except some dollar bills and pocket change. 

“Can you—” Ryan started to ask ‘can you believe he did that?’ but never properly got the question out as he turned to realize Brendon Urie was no longer beside him. 

The instant worry that came to mind was that Brendon had quickly left Ryan’s company in favor of Dan, Mike, and a stupid tooth. But upon further inspection of the world around him, Ryan came to find Brendon had simply crossed the dirt over to the corpse Dan had mutilated. 

He crouched similarly to how Dan had, but there wasn’t any intent. No need to destroy. Brendon got down slowly, sat back on the heels of his boots for a moment as he ran his gaze over the body. He had a focused look to his black eyes and he wiped a hand over his mouth, pulled at his bottom lip with a thumb and index finger—which was rude of him really, it made it hard for Ryan to stay on task—and then back through hair strands caked with dried blood.

Ryan followed suit slowly, coming to stand beside Brendon to peer down at the corpse. 

Revolting. Well and truly. Slowly oozing blood as it clotted in the body’s veins, no pumping heart to get it moving again. A deep contusion in his stomach where he’d been killed. Blood didn’t pour from the wound as it had. Just a drizzle down his side like rain on a cold day. 

Ryan bit back his grimace. He thought one day, maybe, he’d get used to it. Death. Some people stopped caring early on. Dan Pawlovich had never cared about death, or at least Ryan didn’t think he had. He wondered when Brendon had stopped caring. Had he ever?

He certainly hadn’t been too torn up when he shot a man in the chest. Didn’t seem upset at all as he surveyed the corpse in front of Ryan and him. The corpse Dan had stolen a tooth from.

“What—” Ryan swallowed. Forced down the bile in his throat. He needed to get used to this. Why wasn’t he used to it yet? When would he be? 

Perhaps if Ryan never got used to death he could say it made him more human when he came home. Could look at Z. ‘At least I stayed human,’ he could say to her, ‘death was always disgusting to me.’ It didn’t matter though; what death meant to him. It wouldn't matter to her. No one cared. 

“What are you doing?” Ryan finally asked out loud.

Brendon shrugged gently and reached out a tentative hand to take the corpse’s wrist into his hold. “I’m looking.”

“For… what?” Ryan asked, perplexed, and he lowered himself to sit beside Brendon at the same time Brendon shifted his leg to be sitting flat on the dirt as well. They folded their legs underneath themselves at the same time and their knees touched. Brendon didn't attempt to scoot away so Ryan didn't either. 

“You see this?” Brendon replied in a question of his own, gripping onto the limp wrist with white knuckles, and showed it to Ryan. His dark eyes were hard. 

“See what?” Ryan looked over the hand. It looked like a hand, what else could he say? Just a hand of a dead man. Just a hand. How could Brendon stand to touch it? Ryan could barely look at it, let alone hold it in his bare grasp. Didn’t Brendon’s skin crawl? How could he manage? How could he not care?

“He’s got a wedding ring on,” Brendon replied and looked back down at the hand. 

Indeed he did. Ryan could see the glint of the gold band in the sun. Similar to how the tooth had shown. 

“Funny that Dan would take a tooth,” Brendon surmised with a chuckle and turned the hand over to better show off the ring. “And completely ignore this.”

“Maybe he knows not to take wedding rings,” Ryan mumbled under his breath. 

Brendon didn’t say anything to that, instead using both his hands to bend the other fingers down so the only one upright was the one with the ring on. He turned it around and inspected the curve of the man’s fingers and the way the ring fit cleanly around it. Unlike the tooth, the ring wasn’t speckled with blood. Ryan wondered if Brendon would have still been so keen to touch it if it had been stained. 

“Bren,” Ryan tried but Brendon ignored him again. 

He bent the fingers up, bent them down again. Held them all down but the middle finger and showed it to Ryan. Flashed that big grin of his and one of his eyes squinted. Ryan hated him for it. Smiling so handsomely while flipping Ryan off with a dead man’s hand. 

“Funny,” Ryan deadpanned. It wasn’t. 

If Brendon noticed Ryan’s bland voice, he didn’t mention it. He bent all the fingers down again. “Was William married?”

Ryan snapped his head over to Brendon in surprise. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Beckett?”

“Yeah.” Brendon nodded and pressed his lips into a thin line, chewing slightly at the fuller bottom one. He needed to stop playing with that lip. Ryan could scarcely understand what he was saying when he did that. “Was he married?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you, Bren,” Ryan answered. 

He’d only ever had a couple of conversations with the guy. And none of them had been about home life. Ryan didn’t like talking about home life so much. Talking about Z was fine. That was dandy. Home life though. Family? Ryan Ross didn’t have much to say regarding the subject. 

“Huh,” Brendon grunted back. There was a pause. “He probably was. Guys like that usually are.”

Ryan nodded carefully. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. 'Guys like that.' What was that supposed to mean? “Yeah…”

“You ever figure you’re gonna get married?” Brendon asked, casting a look over to Ryan again. He didn't elaborate on 'guys like that.'

Ryan always had. Always thought he would anyway. Always planned that he’d marry Z and they’d live in his stupid little house in Las Vegas, Nevada that his dad bought for him. They would have a kid or two, maybe. He’d get a good job and she’d love him and he’d love her and they'd sleep in a bed together and eat dinner as a family and go down to the finished strip and look at all those pretty lights together, hand in hand. He’d finally call Las Vegas home. 

Z hadn’t written him though. Z probably thought he was dead and Ryan felt extremely bitter. 

“I don’t know. I mean, why would you?” Ryan asked through a scowl. He folded his arms over his chest. “A wedding ring is just a thing that weighs you down and occupies your finger.”

Brendon chuckled to himself. “Glad you feel that way, Ry.”

Ryan didn’t really. A wedding ring meant a lot of things to him. So many things. Too many. But he didn't say a single one of them out loud, turning back to Brendon. “Why do you ask?”

“Making sure this won’t bother you,” Brendon said and finished sliding the ring off the corpse’s finger. 

Ryan’s eyes went big again. Not as wide as when Dan had stolen a tooth but certainly bigger than they had been. “Why would you—”

“It’s a pretty ring,” Brendon interrupted. He turned it over in his own fingers. Live, nimble fingers fidgeting around a dead man ring. “Don’t you think?”

“It’s a fine ring, but why would you—”

“I bet it fits me too.” Brendon once again didn’t let Ryan finish as he slid it onto his middle finger. Grinned down at it to himself. “And it does!”

He turned his hand over, examined it a few times before flipping it back over to show Ryan. Like a dame showing her gal friends her engagement ring. Ryan frowned. He wasn’t a girl. Neither was Brendon. If Brendon were a girl—why wasn't Brendon a girl? The world would be much simpler—Ryan would be head over heels in love with him. But Brendon was not and Ryan wasn’t other. So no one was in love with anyone.

“C’mon, what’d you think?” Brendon was smiling at him. One eye was squinting and he appeared close to laughter. 

Ryan forced himself to smile back, shaking his head and averting his eyes. “I think you’re wearing a dead fella’s ring. Put it back.”

“Put it back?” Brendon repeated and his smile drowned away. “What for?”

“That’s not your ring, Bren,” Ryan reminded him and he disliked that it needed reminding. 

“What? Cause he’s getting so much use out of it?” Brendon asked, gesturing with his head to the carcass. 

That was a fair point. Not a lot that a dead man could do with a ring. Ryan puckered his lips. “Well, I’m sure his wife’ll want her ring back.”

“Please.” Brendon rolled his eyes. “She’s not gonna get it. You know how this works. The vultures come, take what they want. Lady gets a letter. ‘Oh so sorry’ and that’s the end of it. She buries an empty casket. Hell, this guy’ll be lucky if they remember who he is. Lucky if anyone even gets a letter at all.” 

“Yeah, sure. But—” Ryan couldn’t seem to think of something to say. Brendon had a point. It was probably true. That poor broad would probably never get a scrap of her husband back. Even if she did; she might not even notice the ring. Grief and all that. Clouds the mind. “Why would you even want to take a ring?”

“Why did Dan take the tooth?” Brendon asked in reply. 

“Because Dan’s a sick bastard and it was made of gold,” Ryan grunted.

Brendon laughed and Ryan snickered. “Yeah. You’re right about that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re taking a wedding ring cause it’s made of gold.” What Ryan didn’t say out loud but was implied was, ‘you’re no Dan Pawlovich, Brendon Urie. You’re not like him. You’re better than gold teeth.’ 

“No, of course I’m not,” Brendon said, glaring partially at Ryan. How dare he assume something like that. “I couldn’t give a damn what it’s made of. A rubber ring, a plastic ring. I’d take it either way.”

“ _Why_?” Ryan stressed. Why was Brendon Urie so eager to steal another man’s ring? What went through his head? How did Brendon Urie even come up with things like that? What made him look at a ring on a cadaver and go 'ah yes. That's the one I want.' His mind was such a mystery, wasn’t it? Ryan would never understand Brendon Urie. No matter how desperately he wanted to or how hard he tried. 

“You said a wedding ring is just a thing.” Brendon pointed a finger at Ryan. “But, Ryan Ross, for the first time in your young life you are _wrong_.”

“Bren, I’m older than you.”

“A wedding ring is not a _thing_ , Ryan,” Brendon said, holding Ryan in his black gaze. “Someone bought this ring for that man. For him specifically, mind you. A wedding ring is a promise. Not a thing. A _promise_.”

Ryan couldn’t look away from those round black eyes. He swallowed and did his best to sound incredulous. “And...?”

“And,” Brendon went on, fixing the ring around his finger, finally breaking Ryan’s stare. It felt like he could breathe again. Brendon admired the jewelry on his hand. “You can’t let a perfectly good promise go to waste.”

Ryan had to laugh. 

Brendon Urie’s mind would never fail to astound him. There he was, Ryan Ross, disgusted just by sitting next to a body of a man he didn’t know. And then Brendon Urie. Brendon Urie manhandling a corpse and pulling rings off of blue fingers. His reasoning? It was a promise. And Ryan supposed he was right. Couldn’t waste a promise. 

“What’s so funny?” Brendon asked him and his smile was back, wide across his face and he was chuckling to himself as well. 

“Nothing,” Ryan answered and wiped at one of his eyes. “It’s ju—The way you think Brendon Urie. You’re absolutely right. A ring’s a promise. Take it if you want. Take as many rings as you can. Collect every promise there is that wasn’t made to you.”

Brendon laughed with him. Hitching and uneasy but bold and divine at the same time. Hard and it almost felt like Ryan was out of breath just listening. But it was funny. 

Death was hilarious these days. 

Ryan smiled to himself on a street in Clearfield, the key that hung around his neck clasped within his palm. He made Brendon laugh. Several times actually. During war when the world didn’t feel all that funny and even in Clearfield when the world was just spinning and they were simply along for the ride. Ryan made Brendon laugh. And that thought alone was enough to bring a smile to his face as he walked across the asphalt of the sidewalk. 

He’d ended up back at the coffee shop and took a moment to look around the rest of the buildings nearby. He was happy he had remembered the way. Two restaurants. A bank. The coffee shop. A boutique. A convenient store and—

Amazing. Brilliant. 

A toy store. 

Ryan had to laugh again. _Had_ to. This was his luck, wasn’t it? The first shop he went to in Vegas was a toy store. Now it could be in Clearfield too. Fate had a funny way of working out. 

Of course he had to walk inside, grinning from ear to ear as he did so. No bell on the door like the one in Vegas had. Just a clatter of the frame behind him when it closed. 

He noticed instantly that it was smaller than the one in Vegas. A bit more cramped. The check out counter was directly beside the door and the man that sat there smiled at Ryan when he walked in. 

“Afternoon,” the man said. His grin was wide and friendly and Ryan thought instantly that he liked him. Or maybe he was just happy. Ryan was stupid happy; all the thoughts of Dallon Weekes and jobs draining from his worried mind. 

“Oh. Hi,” Ryan greeted, still smiling. Probably the most Ryan Ross had ever smiled in one afternoon. “Afternoon to you too.”

It felt as though he'd figured something out. Like he knew the punchline to the joke before it was even finished. He just didn't know what it was yet.

He took a second to glance around, standing there in the doorway. He didn’t have his pack with him and he didn’t have his too tight tie or his itchy jacket. He was, by all means, a normal man standing in a toy store in suspenders while he twisted a key around his neck. 

“You got a piano in here?” Ryan asked almost instantly, thinking back to sitting at a child’s piano alone, trying to think of what Brendon Urie would play. 

He almost prayed they had a piano. That way he could bring Brendon to the store, ask him to play a tune or two. Crack jokes and sing a song together. He could get Brendon to sing ‘I’ve Got the World on a String’ again. Ryan wouldn’t mind a reprise. He had loved the way Brendon sang it. 

“A piano?” The man asked, confused. He scratched at his reddish hair. Sort of blond, sort of red. Ryan couldn’t determine really. Interesting. He looked like a sweet sort of guy. A rounder face, naturally wider eyes. He had a hat on.

“Yeah. Like a—like a kid’s piano, you know?” Ryan mimed it out the best he could with his hands. 

The man in the hat chuckled lightly. “No, sorry. Don’t think we do.”

Ryan tried not to let his disappointment show too blatantly. “Oh. Thanks anyways.”

“We’ve got plenty of other stuff your kid might like,” the man in the hat perked back up. “You got a boy or a girl? We’ve got yo-yos and slinkies and Shirly Temple dolls. Bet your little lady would love a pretty dolly. Huh? What'd you think?”

Ryan shook his head, smiling. He didn’t want to say he didn’t have children. That might sound odd. A grown man with fading bruises on his face wandering into a toy store when he didn’t have anyone to buy a toy for. Oh, this was very odd. Very wrong. 

Still though, Ryan let his feet stay planted on the wood floor and he said, “I think I’ll just have a look around myself. See what I can find. Thank you though.”

The man—who didn’t look anything like Pete Wentz had—nodded and went back to his own tasks. He didn’t care so much about Ryan Ross. Cared as much about Ryan as Dan Pawlovich cared about dead people. 

Ryan took that as the opportunity to explore further into the store, peering at shelves covered in toys. The ceiling was lower than the toy store in Vegas and the shelves weren’t as tall and the toys weren’t as fancy or polished. The teddy bears’ button eyes were duller and Ryan thought he preferred them that way. Preferred the worn look of love.

A used toy store. Clearfield was a beautiful, small town with a beautiful, small toy store. Ryan Ross could go mad for Clearfield. He knew he could given the chance.

He came to the end of one of the few aisles, running his hands down the wooden siding of it when he saw the basket on the shelf. The basket filled with clear plastic packs of—

“Army men.” Ryan laughed to himself, taking one of the packs off of the shelf to cradle in his hands.

Oh, fate. Fate had a date with Ryan Ross. He didn’t mind. So far, it was a damn good date. Fate had good taste.

A bag of twenty or so green fellas, trapped behind a plastic sheen, that stared up at him in varying positions. He turned the bag over in his hand, searching for the one that was saluting. 

Searching for the army man he had named Brendon in Las Vegas. 

He had dropped it at his father’s house when he ran. He wondered if his father had thrown the figure out. He couldn’t imagine what his father would do with it if he kept it. More than likely George chunked it. Ryan wasn’t offended if he had. There were other army men in the world. 

He held an entire pack of them in his hands. 

“How much?” Ryan asked loudly, directed at the man at the counter, as he rounded the corner to come face to face with him again. 

The man looked up, perplexed, and said, “What? The toy soldiers?”

“Yeah. How much are they?” Ryan held the pack up in one hand. 

“Seven.”

“Cents?”

The man in the hat jeered. “You think I’m gonna make you pay seven _dollars_ for a pack of plastic green guys? Hell no. I ain’t the devil.”

Ryan snickered in return. “Just making sure you weren’t cheating me.”

“I’m not. They’re seven,” the man reiterated as Ryan set the pack down on the table and began to fish in his pocket for any loose change. He produced a dollar and handed it over. The man in the hat took it and glanced over the pack. “You got a son then?” 

“No,” Ryan answered, swaying back on his heels and fixing his hands into his pockets.

The man in the hat nodded to himself as he opened the register up. “Your girl likes soldiers then? That's fun.”

“Don’t have kids,” Ryan admitted. He was in too good a mood to lie.

The man cast a quick peek at Ryan through green eyes. He didn’t say anything and looked back down at the change in his hands as he sifted through the register. “Just a collector of army men?”

“Sure.” Ryan let out a clipped laugh. 

He supposed he was. Coming all the way from Vegas to get to one. Brendon Urie was an army man camping out in Clearfield. And Ryan had run right to him. Surely he was a collector. Actually though, Ryan supposed he was the one that came to Brendon. So by those means, maybe _Brendon_ was the collector. 

Ryan wouldn't mind being collected by Brendon. At least that would mean someone wanted to have him.

“War’s over now,” the man in the hat said conversationally. 

“It is.” Ryan was well aware of that fact but still didn’t know if he was glad or not. There was a lot about war he missed. Missed the way Brendon looked with dried blood on his hair and how he had looked sitting shirtless by the creek edge. But Ryan certainly didn't miss death. It would be bad if he did.

“My brother fought overseas; finally get him home,” the man said. “So that’s all good and dandy.”

“Really?” Ryan asked. “What’s your brother’s name?”

“Kevin Stump,” he answered. Risked another quick glimpse of Ryan, like he didn’t want to be caught in the act. “I’m Patrick if you were wondering.”

Ryan hadn’t been but he appreciated the sentiment of an introduction. “I’m Ryan.”

“Nice to meet you, Ryan," Patrick replied. "You new in town?” 

So Clearfield was one of those little places where everyone knew everyone. Ryan could like that. He nodded. “Yeah. Visiting a friend.”

“What’s his name?” Patrick asked and handed Ryan a handful of coins. 

Ryan accepted them and didn’t make eye contact as he said, “Brendon Urie.”

“Urie?” Patrick frowned. “Don’t know him.”

“You wouldn’t,” Ryan answered, pocketing his change and holding his army men in a hand. “He’s been in war.”

There was a beat. Patrick didn’t have anything to say. 

“Thanks,” Ryan said. 

Patrick nodded. “Nice meeting you, Ryan. Get good use out of those army men.”

Ryan dipped his head in a goodbye. He would. And he turned and walked back out of the store onto the chilled streets of Clearfield with his head high. He felt like a little kid, holding his packet of action figures. 

Now he was _really_ out of place. 

A man with a bruised face in suspenders with a key around his neck to a home he didn’t live in, toting around a bag of army men? Misplaced indeed. But strangely, he couldn't find himself caring all that much.

He was pleased with them though. The army men. There were about twenty men in that pack. And he bet he could name every one of them according to men he’d known and men he wished he could forget. Men he’d never see again. 

William Beckett. Dan Pawlovich. Mike Naran. Could name one after Spencer Smith if he wanted to. He’d never talk to that man again. Not willingly. No matter how good a friend he had been. Ryan was done with Spencer Smith. 

He would name another one Brendon Urie. But as he walked, holding onto the pack, it occurred to him that he only ever got that figure because he thought he’d never see Brendon again. Only gotten that figure when he thought Brendon had high tailed it to Nowhere and there was no chance of ever seeing him again. 

But he could see Brendon now if he wanted. Hell, he could turn around and walk a mile in the opposite direction and he’d see Brendon again. He could go back to the apartment and sleep in Brendon’s bed and wait for him to return home. The only reason he’d gotten that saluting soldier was because he missed Brendon. Because he didn’t have him. 

But now he did. 

Ryan had him. He had him buying Ryan coffee and singing to him on the couch and wearing dead man rings per his own request and giving him baths and letting him sleep in his bed. Had Brendon taking keys from his best friends just to give to Ryan. Just to make Ryan stay. 

Ryan turned over the pack and saw the toy soldier in the saluting position. The one he’d named Brendon. Brendon Urie, who had never saluted him seriously. Not once. 

Brendon Urie with his feminine features and his full lips and hitching laugh and dark, bloodstained hair and evil eyes and Sinatra style voice. Who liked sleeping late, coffee, Tom Collins, sugar, some upbeat jazz, and the color red. Who killed a man in Normandy and slept with a girl named Shana in Nancy. Collected dead man rings and smoked soggy cigarettes when he was nervous. Brendon Urie who let him stay. Brendon, who—if Ryan liked boys—Ryan could fall in love with.

And then it hit him all too hard as he held onto the toy soldier he’d bought just to name it after Brendon in the middle of a sidewalk in Clearfield. Hit him harder than a bullet ever could. 

Not could love him. 

Ryan came to a stop on the street and swallowed, turning the soldier face down in his hand. The chain around his neck felt like it was choking him; tighter than his tie had ever been. 

_Not I could love him,_ he thought, dread pooling in his stomach. So that was the joke no one knew but him. That was the punchline. 

_Not I could_ , Ryan Ross realized, _I do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ball's about to start rolling people.


	22. Pretty Paper Means Jackshit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is _long_. So, frankly, I suggest breaking it into two sittings.

Brendon wished he knew how to write a song. 

Wished he knew what words would sound the best. What made lyrics good. What rhymed best with love. Did a song even need to rhyme? He could sing a song very well. But writing one was a completely different ordeal. He hadn’t realized how different—how difficult—until he had a pencil and scraps of paper in front of him at Dallon’s kitchen table. 

Dallon had his elbows propped up on the wood and his head resting in his hands. He looked painfully bored. Brendon understood. It was a boring thing. 

What made a song again? It was different than a poem. Or at least, Ryan Ross had claimed it was. 

_A poem doesn’t have to rhyme; it doesn’t have a chorus. Poems have stanzas. It’s just… it’s words. Hopefully, well-written words,_ Ryan had said to Brendon nearly three years prior. And he’d said that _a song has a tune. Has a chorus, a beat. Songs have verses. And it doesn’t sound good if it doesn’t rhyme._

Ryan had written a song. 

A poem or a song, Brendon still wasn’t exactly sure. It fit more into the song category than it did into the poem one and Brendon had tried to sing it back to Ryan. He couldn’t remember most of the words to it though. He hadn’t been all that close with Ryan in those days. Just some guy in his squadron that had a more nervous smile than most and was obsessed with writing love letters to his girlfriend. 

Elizabeth Anne Berg. She was a lucky gal. Very few men out there that wrote love songs. Ryan Ross was one of a kind when it came to love. Although, he did have his vices. He slept with French girls the same as all the other men. He was just like any other man, led by temptation. Didn’t change the fact that he used to write love letters though. That he loved that girl. 

Brendon wondered if he still did. 

If he still loved her even though she didn't love him anymore. Brendon wondered why she didn't. How could you stop loving Ryan Ross? Not that Brendon had ever started.

He wondered if Ryan still wrote love letters.

That if maybe when Ryan found the right girl he would write her love poems and songs and letters and serenade her heart in the written word. She’d die. Any dame would absolutely die for that. When Ryan Ross found the right girl, she’d be one of the happiest broads there ever was. The luckiest dame in the world if she had Ryan Ross on her arm.

How had that song gone again? 

_Loving you is all I wanna do / I'm so wrapped up that nothing can untie me / Nothing matters but you._

That was beautiful. Really it was. There was more to the letter. Brendon wished he could remember all of it. It had been gorgeous. He would love to sing it again with proper music. Maybe he could get Ryan to write it down in its entirety and Eric could write some instrumental for that song too. 

Maybe they could have a whole original setlist down at The Church featuring Ryan Ross’s songs and Brendon Urie’s voice. That might be incredible. Might be? Brendon knew it would be.

As Brendon fiddled with his pencil, he wished that he could write lyrics as well as Ryan Ross. 

_You remind me of a former love._

That’s what Brendon had lyric wise. One line he hadn’t even meant to sing. But Eric seemed to think it was worth more than a mishap. It was worth its own song. Brendon didn’t exactly understand that logic but it couldn’t hurt to try and write a song. 

Dallon let out a small hum and Brendon glanced up to see him swirling his spoon around in his tomato soup lazily. He let out a louder groan and Brendon rolled his eyes, dropping his pencil. 

“Sorry,” Brendon announced to get Dallon’s attention. He tilted his head to the side. “Am I boring you, Dal?”

“What?” Dallon glanced up at him, soup forgotten when he saw Brendon staring at him and he straightened in his chair quickly. “Oh. No. Of course you’re not. I’m—uh—”

“Seems like I am,” Brendon replied but he smiled anyway and tapped the end of his pencil on the paper. 

“You’re not, you’re not,” Dallon pressed, shaking his head. He leaned forward to look at the one line Brendon had written. He smirked. “Lot of progress I see.”

Brendon chuckled to himself lamely. “Yeah. It’s… yep.”

“Not going well?” Dallon asked, taking the paper from Brendon to turn it around on the table to face him. 

“It’s not going at all,” Brendon admitted, his smile tugging into a frown. He folded his hands in his lap.

“You remind me of a former love,” Dallon read aloud. He took a second to turn the paper over, found it blank and turned it back. “And…?”

He turned the paper over to look again, just in case, and Brendon snorted. “That’s it.”

“And that’s it.” Dallon looked up. “That’s it? You’ve been sitting there for half an hour and you don’t have a single word written?”

“It’s harder than I thought it was gonna be,” was all Brendon could come up with in response. And it was harder. Significantly more difficult than previously anticipated. How did Ryan Ross manage?

How had Ryan written that whole letter for Z? You had to really love someone to be able to write a song to them. She was a lucky girl. Such a lucky girl.

Brendon didn’t realize he was scowling until Dallon laughed and pointed it out to him. 

“What exactly is it supposed to be about?” Dallon asked, scanning over the singular sentence once again. 

“I don’t have a clue,” Brendon replied. He played the pencil between his finger tips. Wished he had a smoke; his lungs were itching. Maybe Dallon had one somewhere. Even though Dallon didn't smoke. It might be worth the ask. Maybe, by some miracle, Dallon Weekes had a cigarette lying around.

“What did Eric want it to be about?” Dallon looked up at Brendon again, brow creasing. 

“Couldn’t tell you.” Brendon set his chin in one of his hands. “It was a messed up line. That’s all it was. But now Eric’s got it in his head that it’s some sort of… I don’t know… like my heart was leading my mouth and there’s this ‘former love’ of mine that I just can’t stop thinking about. He wants some fantasy romance that I can't—I couldn't give him if I wanted to." He sighed. Yearned for a smoke. "Thinks I have some... 'former love' or something and I'm just not telling him.”

Dallon blinked. No, he probably didn't have a cigarette. “Do you?”

“Do I what?” Brendon wished to God he did.

“Have a former love?”

“Wh—No, Dallon.” Brendon snorted, trying to play it off in humor. He wasn’t about to fight with Dallon Weekes again about his love life. His head hurt too much for that. “I do not have a ‘former love’ romantically or otherwise. I’ve never been serious with anyone, you know that. You know me.”

Dallon nodded slowly. “I do.”

Did he?

“So can you think of any former loves I might be forgetting?” Brendon pressed, cocking an eyebrow like a gun; ready for his words to be bullets if he needed them to. 

Dallon stared for a second. He blinked. Opened his mouth and looked as though he was going to regret what he was about to say. But that didn’t stop him from saying it. Stared down the barrel of a gun—Brendon Urie—and said, deadpan, “Ryan Ross.”

“Dallon!” Brendon groaned, letting his head fall into his hands. He should have known. 

“Hey!” Dallon raised his hands up in surrender but he was smiling. Brendon was glad he was. Gave him a reason to smile too. Pretend to smile. It wasn't all that funny to him. “I’m not saying you like him still! But you liked him then.”

“No,” Brendon told him for what felt like the hundredth time. “I didn’t.”

“For the sake of the song let’s say you did,” Dallon expressed. An excuse to get Brendon to admit he liked Ryan Ross. Which he didn't. “C’mon, that’s a great song. Unrequited love and all that. People love that.”

“There isn’t any ‘unrequited love’ bullshit in my song. There isn’t any love at all here." He pointed the pencil at Dallon's face. "You are grabbing handfuls of smoke here, Dal. There’s nothing there.”

“For the sake of the song,” Dallon reiterated. He practically sounded like he was begging. Begging Brendon to admit something that wasn't even true. “Let’s say there is.”

“It’s like you want to be jealous,” Brendon grunted—tried to make it sound teasing when it wasn't—and scratched his nail at the table top. 

“I’m not jealous,” Dallon protested, narrowing his eyes. He was. He really, really was. 

“You are.” Brendon grinned at him. “But it’s sort of cute so I’ll allow it to continue.”

Dallon ducked his head, smiling in response. Brendon had him. Had him wrapped around his finger. Dallon said, unaware Brendon had him trapped, “C’mon. Let’s think it through, huh? What’s the song like? Fast or slow?”

“I don’t know,” Brendon answered honestly. “Eric’s the one writing the music.”

“What do _you_ want it to be?” Dallon asked and Brendon shrugged. It didn’t matter what he wanted it to be. 

But he thought for a second and said, “On the faster side.” Because no one but Ryan Ross liked the blues.

“Okay,” Dallon said, bobbing his head. “Let’s write the chorus first, huh? We can worry about verses later. How long is the song?”

“Short preferably.”

Dallon laughed. “How long does Eric want it to be?”

Brendon didn't know what Eric wanted. Just that he wanted a song that was 'true' about a former love. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Then let’s go simple; how about that?” Dallon asked and he reached over the table to take the pencil from Brendon's fingers. Brendon let him take it. “Two verses. Two choruses. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“You say that but you aren’t the one who’s been staring at a blank page for thirty minutes,” Brendon grumbled and drummed his fingers against the side of his face, no longer having the pencil to distract him. It would be better if he had a cigarette.

“Don’t pout,” Dallon commanded quietly and Brendon scowled at him playfully before sitting straighter. “Tell me to write something down and I’ll write it. So far we have ‘you remind me of a former love.’ What else does he remind you of?”

“Who’s ‘he’?” Brendon asked, distressed, immediately slouching once more. 

“Whoever the song’s about,” Dallon supplied which was a friendly way of saying ‘tell me more about Ryan Ross so I can get jealous and we can yell at each other again. Doesn’t that sound like fun?’ “I assume we’re not writing about a woman.”

“I could write about a woman if I wanted to,” Brendon shot back, folding his arms.

Dallon grinned skeptically. “I thought Eric wanted the song to just be ‘the truth’?”

“I guess he did say that.” Brendon threw a hand up. “No women then.”

Dallon wrote down ‘no women’ across the top of the notepad in his exquisite loopy font. Brendon laughed and Dallon snuck a peek at him, smiling that shiny smile that fit him so well. “Now tell me, what does he remind you of?”

What did Ryan Ross remind him of? Better yet, why did he want to write about Ryan at all? There were plenty of other people in the world to write about. Shane from France. That was an adventure. Or he could write about what a shifty prick Dan Pawlovich had been. Or how moronically young Mike Naran was. Could write a whole ballad about how much he wanted to punch Jon Walker in the face. He could write about Dallon; about crazy blue eyes and shiny smiles. Try to write him a love song like Ryan had written to Z. 

It wouldn’t come out as beautiful. 

“Oh my famously known friends,” Brendon muttered, really more to himself than to Dallon. 

But Dallon heard it, perking up. “Famous friends, is that what you said?”

Brendon blinked a couple of times. He didn’t know if he was supposed to agree or not. “Sure that’s what I said.”

Dallon thought about it for a second before reciting cleanly and stiffly, “You remind me of my famous friends?”

Mike Naran. Jon Walker. Dan Pawlovich. Dallon Weekes. 

“A _few_ of my famous friends,” Brendon tried. 

Dallon started scribbling words on the paper intently. “You remind me of a few of my famous friends.”

Brendon stared at Dallon for a second and he had to laugh under his breath. Friends that kissed in gay clubs in closets. Some friends he had. He said aloud, “Well I guess that would all depend on what you qualify as friends, actually.”

Dallon peered up, eyes big, before he shot his head back down and scribbled again. Brendon leaned over the tabletop to see the paper as Dallon sat back, reading aloud, “You remind me of a few of my famous friends / Well, that all depends what you qualify as friends.”

Brendon frowned in surprise. “That’s not so bad.”

“That’s also a chorus,” Dallon added and he spun the pencil around between his fingers.

“What?”

Dallon was grinning ear to ear. “That’s your chorus, Brendon! Just say that twice or three times. That’s a chorus!”

Brendon smiled back at him. “Hey, I’m not so bad at this writing thing after all, am I?”

Eric was right about the truth. It was the best story to tell. 

“Okay. Okay.” Dallon was nodding to himself. “Now a verse. A verse. Okay what to put in the verse.”

“What do you usually put in a verse?” Brendon wanted to know. 

“How the hell am I supposed to know?" Dallon returned. "I don’t write songs.”

Brendon laughed at him. “Let’s see. We’ve got the chorus. And the first line. Which goes, ‘you remind me of a former love’. Can I just repeat that for three lines? How about a song of two choruses only? That might be fun.”

Dallon shook his head but he was smiling at Brendon’s antics. He loved Brendon. He loved Brendon so much. “No. No. Tell me uhm… He reminds you of a love you once knew. Tell me how then.”

Brendon opened his mouth and then paused. “Wait; say that one more time.”

“He reminds you of a former love you once knew?” Dallon asked again, raising his eyebrows. 

Brendon snapped, pointing at Dallon’s face. “That’s it! You remind me of a former love that I once knew! Write that down!”

Dallon blinked, alarmed, then quickly did as told, jotting the phrase down in a rushed font. “That’s the first line then. ‘You remind me of a former love that I once knew.’ You like it?”

“I love it, Dallon!” Brendon exclaimed. There was a pause and he felt halfway out of breath. He let out a sigh. “Jiminy _Cricket_ , Dal, is this how people actually write songs? This is taking years.”

Dallon sniggered. “I’m sure it’s a different method to how we’re doing it. But I think our way works better.”

“That’s the first line; _you remind me of a former love that I once knew_ ,” Brendon started up again, sending Dallon a grateful expression. “Second line. I need a second line.”

“Well uh…” Dallon waved a hand. “Tell me about this former love… of yours? What’s he like? What’s he do?”

It sounded like an invitation for Dallon to get mad again but Brendon ignored that thought in the back of his head. Pushed it aside. He wanted to write a song. Didn’t need negative, jealous emotions to impact that. His former love. Former love. What the hell was a former love?

For the sake of the song—for the song Eric wanted him to write and for the song only—it was Ryan Ross. 

What was Ryan Ross like? Too many things. Small and frail and too trusting and caring. Too goddamn good. But that probably wouldn’t make a nice song. Just singing on for a few lines about a former love being ‘too good.’ No one wanted to listen to that sort of song. Brendon would. If someone wrote a song about Ryan Ross being too small and caring and too goddamn good; he'd listen.

What did Ryan Ross do? He shrunk when people stood too tall. Darted his eyes out of any peering gaze. Smiled like he didn’t think anyone would want to see. Carried around a torn up, stolen baby bible from war. 

Carried around a baby bible, God’s diary. A manual on what to do and what not. Not that anyone actually listened to God's rule book. A speech to the human race no one cared to listen to but Ryan Ross. 

Brendon paused. Spoke out the words he was trying to piece together. “And you carry around a ba—a little—a little book with you. A little speech with you. And you carry a little speech with you.”

Dallon didn’t say anything. Just wrote it down. 

“ _You remind me of a former love that I once knew / And you carry a little speech with you_ ,” Brendon repeated with more conviction. He was proud of those words. 

“That’s two lines.” Dallon glanced up, his curiosity plain on his face. “What type of speech?”

“What?” Brendon asked even though he knew.

“Your former love,” Dallon tried again. “What speech does he carry?”

 _A baby bible, why do you ask?_ But Brendon simply shrugged, batted his eyelashes and said, “Don’t know. That’s what sounded right.”

Dallon didn’t question any further. Brendon was thankful. There were too many questions about Ryan Ross he couldn’t answer and ones that he never wanted to. “Alright. Next line then, I guess. Former love. What uh… what do you do with a former love?”

“What do you do with any love?” Brendon queried aloud in a mock theatrical tone and Dallon snorted. “No, I’m serious. Tell me what love is, Dallon Weekes. Let me know.”

Dallon flickered his eyes up and the two stared at each other head-on. Brendon felt like he’d said the wrong thing. 

Shouldn’t have given Dallon Weekes so much freedom to give him a definition of love. 

“Oh, you—” Dallon fumbled for words. “You spend all your time with that person you love. You… kiss them and hug them and hold their hand.”

Hold their hand. 

Brendon had never held Ryan’s hand before. He’d grazed it sure or shaken it in greeting but he’d never just sat with Ryan. Never sat in silence and held his hand, fingers clasped together. He’d never acted like he loved Ryan. Not that he did. Not that he ever would. 

“Hold their hand,” Brendon repeated. He licked his lip. “Bare with me, this one might not flow as well.”

“The others have been flowing well?” Dallon asked in disbelief and Brendon scoffed, playfully hitting Dallon’s shoulder across the table with the back of his hand. 

“We—me and my former love I guess—we're holding hands. And we’re… walking together? We’re taking a stroll down the street holding hands?” Brendon thought about showing Ryan around Utah. Giving him a tour. But it had occurred to Brendon that it felt less like showing Clearfield off to Ryan and more like showing Ryan off to Clearfield. “We were holding hands walking through the middle of the street.”

Dallon snapped his fingers. “That’s the one.”

Brendon listened to the pencil scratch across the paper. The lead made loops and twirls across it. He thought about looking around Clearfield. All those buildings and people he hadn't seen in three years. And somehow his mind wandered to war. Wandered to marching with Ryan over dirty landscapes in French towns. Thought about blood and corpses and how it didn’t bother him all that much. Never bothered him. 

He had whiskey eyes to distract him. 

Brendon laughed silently to himself and said, “It didn’t bother me though. I was fine with it.”

“Fine with what?” Dallon asked, cocking his head to the side. 

“The walk,” Brendon proposed. “The view. Just… taking in the scenery is all. I never minded.”

Dallon stared at him. He took a small breath in. “You were just taking in the… the place?”

“Yeah. It's fine, I'm just taking in the scenery.”

Dallon started writing before saying as he continued to scribble, “How’s this? ‘It's fine with me, I'm just taking in the scenery’? Huh? How’s that?”

“Great." Brendon thought it was. "That’s great, Dal.”

“Okay. Let me read it. _You remind me of a former love that I once knew / And you carry a little speech with you / We were holding hands walking through the middle of the street / It's fine with me, I'm just taking in the scenery / You remind me of a few of my famous friends / Well, that all depends what you qualify as friends / You remind me of a few of my famous friends / Well, that all depends what you qualify as friends_.”

Brendon was beaming. “I love it. I wrote that. Well, _we_ , technically, wrote that.”

There was no ‘us’ as Dallon had suggested, but there could be a ‘we’.

“No, it’s fine,” Dallon said, smiling just as wide. “Take credit. You wrote it. Your song.”

“It’s great.” Brendon took a breath in. “Are we done yet?”

Dallon laughed for a few moments. “One more verse. One more verse and then the second chorus and we can call it a day.”

“Okay. One more. I can do one more.” Brendon heaved in a dramatic sigh and Dallon chuckled. “The things I do with my former love… the things you do with someone you love…” 

He thought about marching. Walking Ryan through Clearfield and through Normandy and Metz and Nancy. The day at the creek stood out to him. The day when he’d tried to fashion himself sandals and lost a ring in the water making wishes. He never did find out what Ryan Ross wished for that day. He wondered. It was probably for Z to write him back. 

Ryan needed to live a little. Take a chance.

“Take a chance!” Brendon blurted and Dallon jotted it down without a second thought. “Take a chance and… and take off your shoes and swim. Uh… take off your shoes and dance. Enjoy life a bit. Dance in the rain even if it kills you, y’know? Take a chance, take your shoes off, dance in the rain.”

“That’s the one,” Dallon murmured and he wrote it down in full. 

Brendon thought about other times with Ryan Ross. Thought about girls. About girls Ryan thought he slept with. Shane. When he’d come back in the dead of night covered in bruises and Ryan had given him such a grilling about it.

A similar sort of argument as to when Dallon found out Ryan was staying with him. Those two really were similar. No wonder Dallon supposedly reminded Brendon of him. Or at least that’s what Eric thought it meant. 

Brendon thought of himself, every man he knew patting him on the back and saying congratulations. As if he’d never had sex before. He was just showing off. Just flashing his promiscuity around and whoever saw it seemed to love it. He’d never understand why. 

Sex wasn’t a big deal. Sex was just sex. 

“And I was flashing it around and everyone knew. The news spread everywhere.” Brendon tried to think of how best to phrase that line. It clicked and he clapped his hands. “And I was flashing around and the news spread all over town.”

Dallon nodded and took notes. 

Last bit then. Last part of the song. This was getting easier.

Memorable times with Ryan Ross. Times when Ryan could have been mistaken as his ‘former love’. Times when Brendon nearly loved him. Nearly. Oh, Christmas of ‘44. Of course Christmas of ‘44. When Ryan Ross, who didn’t even smoke, had lit them both cigarettes and sat under a caved-in roof in the dirt with Brendon just to breath out grey clouds. Just to pollute the air and sigh into the freezing rain. 

Just to be with Brendon when he needed him. 

Brendon hadn’t minded the rain so much. Same as war. The rain didn’t bother him. Ryan’s smile was warm enough to will the cold away, anyhow. But it would have been nice if the atmosphere hadn’t been so dreary. If Ryan and he had smoked together under different circumstances. 

Different than Mike Naran shooting himself in the foot. 

If Brendon and Ryan knew each other outside of war. That would be nice. If they were simple enough guys that met and talked and played cards and smoked together. If Brendon and Ryan could maybe live that apple pie life. Ryan could stay in his apartment. Sleep in his bed. Be normal. Hell, maybe Brendon could sleep in it too. Maybe they could hold hands. 

Maybe Brendon could stop with all that former love stuff. Make Ryan Ross a current love instead. 

Dallon’s heart-breaker blue eyes were fixed on him. Brendon shook his head. Forced away intrusive thoughts and said—this line coming easier than any of them had, “I'm not complaining that it's raining, I'm just saying that I'd like it a lot more than you think, if the sun would come out and sing with me.”

Dallon blinked a few times. He didn’t write it down. “You come up with that?”

“Uh huh,” Brendon answered. “Just now.”

Dallon licked at his lips. “That’s a good line.”

“Thanks.” Brendon thought so too.

Dallon took a minute to write it down. And that was the song over and done. That was Brendon Urie’s love song to Ryan Ross disguised as something else. He hoped Ryan wouldn’t notice if he ever listened. Not that he ever would. Maybe it would be best if Ryan never heard it at all. If Ryan ever did hear it, Brendon hoped he wouldn’t be able to decipher the meaning. Hoped Dallon wouldn’t be able to either. 

He looked up at Dallon carefully. Watched him write the song out a sperate sheet of paper with less rushed handwriting; so it actually looked legible. Brendon smiled to himself. Dallon had magnificent handwriting. All swirls and intricate curls. He wrote in cursive. A true English teacher.

Brendon thought back to seeing Ryan write. How messy and uncomfortable his scrawl had been. How aggressively he erased and scribbled across the page. Those words mattered to him. If the words were written in a bad font, chances were they meant something. 

Nothing was written beautifully and meant something. 

_Every dream I dream, I dream about you / Loving you is all I wanna do / I'm so wrapped up that nothing can untie me / Nothing matters but you._

Ryan Ross could write a love song. Z probably didn’t even realize how lucky she was. Or did she? Brendon would have liked to meet her. Ask her how she did it. ‘How’d you get Ryan Ross on your arm? Is it hard? Or did you just ask nicely?’ 

She probably loved Ryan. But if she did, why did she break his heart? Brendon made a note in his head to talk to Ryan about Z later. He had questions he wanted answers to. And he knew Ryan would answer. That boy was too truthful. Too caring. He’d tell Brendon whatever he wanted to know. 

“What time is it?” he asked, glancing around the house. He needed something to distract his mind. Needed a smoke and he wished Dallon had one.

Dallon put a period at the end of the song, which technically wasn’t right but Brendon didn’t say anything. “About two. Why?”

Brendon groaned. “That’s too early. I want to _do_ something.”

"I'd change the time for you if I could." Dallon smiled at him wistfully. “What do you propose?”

“Where does Eric live?” Brendon asked, doing his best to ignore the first part. 'I'd change the time for you if I could.' That could be mistaken for romance. 

“Brendon,” Dallon tried, a laugh mixing with his words. “We are not showing up to Eric’s house at two p.m. with a song and nothing else.”

“Why not?” Brendon whined. “He’s the one that wanted me to write it so bad.”

“Maybe you should just wait for tonight,” Dallon suggested, smiling at Brendon fondly. He loved him.

“Do I have to?” Brendon asked. 

Dallon snorted out a laugh. “Yeah Brendon, you do.”

And Brendon did. Painstakingly, he waited. He and Dallon twiddled around in the house for the next few hours. Chatted and told jokes and made each other laugh. And surprisingly, it wasn’t awkward. It was the same way it had been before the kissing incident. 

That’s what Brendon had feared, really. That it wouldn’t be the same. But he shouldn't have. Dallon was a good guy. Brendon was an idiot to worry. 

They played cards and watched Looney Tunes and Dallon laughed so hard he cried and that made Brendon laugh so hard he nearly pissed himself. 

He loved Dallon. 

He loved Dallon so much. Loved his sense of humor and his perfect handwriting that meant nothing and his blue eyes and straight-laced, shiny smile and stupid checkered shirts. He loved Dallon. Just not… the way Dallon loved him, he supposed. Which was awful. So awful. He could love Dallon like that. He could if he tried.

It was later in the evening—they’d forgotten entirely about dinner but Brendon didn’t mind; he wasn’t hungry—and they were still watching the T.V. 

Dallon had ‘The Original Amateur Hour’ on, but Brendon had since stopped listening. His mind was wandering elsewhere. To Ryan Ross and Elizabeth Berg and possible questions he could ask. How did you know you loved her? When did you say I love you? When did you first kiss her? Was it everything you wanted it to be? And then there was a sensation on his thigh and he glanced down to find Dallon’s hand sitting there, palm up. 

An invitation. 

Dallon flexed his fingers, beckoning. Brendon stared down at the opened palm, fingers calling up to him in offering. He could hear Dallon’s voice in the back of his head from earlier. _You spend all your time with that person you love. You… kiss them and hug them and hold their hand._

Brendon shook his head, ridding his mind of thoughts and concerns and questions to ask Ryan Ross, taking Dallon’s hand in his own. Holding hands didn’t mean you loved someone. Dallon gripped his hand back in reply and let it sit there on Brendon’s thigh in silence. It felt like the conjoined hands were burning Brendon’s leg, the heat sinking through his trousers straight to his flesh. 

Dallon’s hand was soft; the side effect of no hard labor. He'd never carried packs over uneven landscapes, never aimed a rifle, never killed a man. Brendon’s own hands were calloused and rough. If Dallon noticed the contrast, he didn’t say anything about it. 

Dallon did, however, notice the rings that encircled on Brendon’s fingers. A normal one, one that had _Love_ carved in it, and one that had _Your Heart is Mine_.

He raised their clasped hands to eye level, turning them over and inspecting the jewelry. 

“You don’t wear rings,” he observed aloud and rubbed his thumb over the back of Brendon’s hand slowly, scraping the flesh with his fingernail. 

“Sure I do,” Brendon answered. He couldn’t think of what else to say. 

Dallon scoffed. “Since when?”

Brendon held his gaze. “Since the war, Dal.”

Dallon quickly shut up, turning his attention back to Brendon’s hand. He had both of his own hands around it at that point, just running his soft fingertips over Brendon’s tough skin. He paused his pursuit over the crescent-shaped scar on Brendon’s skin and gently grazed his touch over it. Brendon held his breath. 

“This is a new scar,” Dallon said. He didn’t look at Brendon when he said it. 

“Yeah, war tends to do that to you,” Brendon murmured back. 

“Is this a dog bite?”

“Is it time to go yet?”

Brendon stood off the couch, separating Dallon’s hands from his own and Dallon blinked up in surprise. Seeing the look in Dallon’s eyes, the confusion and somewhat hurt, was enough to make Brendon feel guilty about standing but he wasn’t so eager to talk about the war with Dallon. 

Dallon was the only one who knew that he went to war to die. And he bet Dallon couldn’t have a conversation with him about it without viewing it through that lens. He didn’t want to talk about death with Dallon Weekes. And he certainly didn’t want to talk about being bit by a dog or dead man rings.

How would Dallon react to the dead man rings? Dallon was a pretty straight forward guy. A pretty ‘this is black and this is white’ style guy. He wouldn’t approve of dead man rings. 

Brendon swayed back on his heels, searching the room for his shoes. If he had a cigarette the world would make so much more sense. “It’s about seven now. I think that we can—We can head out now, can’t we?”

It was a beat or two before Dallon broke out of whatever trance he was in. “Oh y-yeah. Sure, Brendon. Sure. Eric comes early anyhow. I’m sure he’ll be there by now.”

He stood off the couch and Brendon nodded to himself. Yes. Great plan. The two of them would go to The Church; he’d show Eric the song; he’d sing. And then he’d go home and Ryan would be—

Had Ryan made it home safely? What if he’d gotten lost along the way? What if he’d lost the key? What if he was just walking aimlessly around Clearfield with no idea which way to go?

Dallon’s voice surfaced from somewhere but Brendon hadn’t caught exactly what he’d said. 

“Huh?” Brendon blinked up at him with big eyes. “What’d you say?”

Dallon let out a nervous scoff. A melancholy type of laugh. Oh, that was concern. That was pity. Brendon shifted from foot to foot. Dallon reached out a hand to take him by the shoulder. Keep him in place and his gaze locked on those blue eyes. Dallon smiled at him hesitantly and Brendon went still. “I asked, Brendon, if you were alright.”

“What?” Brendon shook his head. “Yeah. Of course I am. I’m fine, Dal.”

Dallon wet his lips tentatively. He nodded. “If you say so.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Brendon insisted. The last thing he needed was Dallon Weekes's sympathy.

“I know,” Dallon said back. 

“Alright.” Brendon nodded affirmatively. 

Dallon moved his hand from Brendon's shoulder to his chin, tilting his face up. "Can I kiss you?"

Brendon swallowed. He hadn't expected that but Dallon was looking at him intently, blue eyes expectant and assuring. Dallon loved him. "You can if you want."

Dallon wanted to, bending down to meet Brendon and kissed him on the lips, soft and sweet and Brendon let him. He was a great kisser and for a split second, Brendon's head didn't hurt so bad and he didn't need a smoke so much. He could one hundred percent fall in love with Dallon Weekes if Ryan Ross hadn't decided to hang around in Clearfield. 

They split a centimeter apart, breath mixing together as they stayed close, foreheads resting together. When Dallon spoke, his voice was low, and Brendon felt it hot against his own mouth. "You can tell me if you're not okay."

Brendon laughed. "I'm alright. Just wish I had a smoke."

Dallon kissed him again, smiling against his lips. "C'mon; let's go."

He gestured his head toward the door when he took a step back and Brendon followed him. It took him about halfway down the street to realize he had taken his dog tag out of his shirt was playing the chain between his fingers. 

They walked in silence, a foot apart from one another. Couldn’t walk too close if you were men. Might attract the wrong sort of attention. Although, Dallon still hung his hand at his side between Brendon and he and at one point it grazed the back of Brendon’s fingers. 

Dallon was itching to hold his hand; Brendon could tell. 

He didn’t say anything about it though. Just fixed that hand into his trouser pocket and kept walking. 

He felt sort of ashamed by the time they got to The Church and clambered down the stairs that he hadn’t said anything to Dallon. Dallon might mistake that for Brendon being mad with him. Which he wasn’t. He wasn’t mad with Dallon. He was more mad with himself than anyone else. Mad that he couldn't resist a good kiss and that he didn't understand what a 'former love' was.

But, sure enough, at seven fifteen—forty-five minutes before the club opened—Eric Ronick was fiddling around with his piano. Picking out what songs he wanted Brendon to sing for the evening. 

Brendon should help him compile a setlist one day. He sang the same twenty songs every night in a separate order. They needed variety. Routine was getting boring. Anything to distract Brendon's mind from kissing.

“Eric!” Brendon shouted across the room. 

Seemingly no one else was around. The trumpet player that Brendon didn’t know the name of and Nicole were there, and of course Jon Walker would be stumbling his way in at some point or another, but other than that no one else. 

“Dallon pass me the song, would you?” Brendon asked—the first words to him since ‘I just wish I had a smoke’ which he still did—and Dallon turned to him. 

“Yeah sure,” he answered and produced the folded note sheet and extended it to Brendon. 

“Thank you,” Brendon said sincerely, taking it from him and looking it over once again. “Your handwriting’s great.”

Dallon took it as a compliment. Brendon wasn’t sure if he had meant it as one. 

“Brendon Urie?” Eric called back across the room in response to Brendon’s shout. “You need something, pal?”

“I’ve got your song,” Brendon replied, strolling over to the stage. 

Eric was up from the piano in an instant, jogging down the stage steps, eyes sparkling. He repeated eagerly as Brendon neared him, “My song?”

“One former love, as requested.” Brendon handed over the folded piece of paper, grinning wide. He wouldn’t lie; he hadn’t been this proud of himself in a while. He wrote a song. Him. Brendon Urie. With the help of Dallon, of course, he'd be sure to mention that to Eric. 

Eric snatched the page from him, pulling it open while smiling as big as Brendon was. Brendon glanced over his shoulder in search of Dallon, if nothing else just to send him a look that said ‘do you see this? We wrote a song!’ but Dallon had vanished from the room. 

Probably in search of Jon Walker. 

“So?” Brendon asked, snapping his head back to Eric. 

Eric was flitting his eyes over the paper for about the hundredth time. He turned it over to the blank side and frowned, turning it back. Turned it over once more to see if it had changed. It hadn’t. He looked up at Brendon. “Is this it?”

Brendon’s heart sank in his chest. “Yes.”

“So… is it slow?” Eric asked. “Usually you write fewer lyrics when it’s slow. Is it slow?”

“No,” Brendon answered. “It’s faster.”

“Faster?” Eric crinkled his nose. 

“On the faster side?” Brendon suggested. 

“Then how come it’s so short?” Eric practically wailed.

“I wanted it to be a short song,” Brendon protested, his smile fading and his irritation showing. “Listen, Eric, I don’t write songs. Ever. This a big deal. So if you don’t like it—”

“Don’t like it?” Eric repeated, alarmed. “Urie, I love it. I just want more. You really don’t listen, do you, kid?”

Brendon reeled back in surprise. “Y-you like it?”

“Hell yeah I do.” Eric laughed. “Just worry that the arrangement I have planned is too long. C’mere, let me play it for you.”

Brendon only wavered a second before he followed him up onto the stage and Eric retrieved an acoustic guitar from the wall. He sat down cross-legged on the stage and Brendon didn’t complain as he sat across from him. There wasn’t any nervousness as Eric played the first chord. 

“Tell me if it fits your vision.”

His vision? What vision? Brendon didn’t have a vision. 

He listened though. Listened to the tune that Eric had made up. And it sounded good. Really good. Faster but not too fast. Not very jazzy but not the blues either. Ryan probably wouldn't like it. Next time Brendon would try to write a song Ryan liked. 

“Wait, play that part again,” Brendon said, gesturing with his finger to the guitar. 

Eric strummed it out. 

“That’s it.” Brendon smacked the stage with a hand. “That’s it, Eric. That sounds great.”

“Okay.” Eric smiled at Brendon how a father smiled to a son. “Sing it.”

Brendon paused. “Si-sing it?”

“Yeah. Sing me your song,” Eric continued. “If this is the beat. Let’s make sure.”

“I wrote it this morning,” Brendon protested. 

“Then it should be fresh on the mind.” Eric grinned. He said dramatically, closing his eyes, “C’mon, Urie. Sing me a tune.” 

Brendon laughed despite himself. Listened to Eric strum the first few notes, and he sang it. It was slightly off, he’d need to practice it a time or two but the beat fit. It sounded alright. Sounded really alright. Brendon wrote an alright song. He was proud of that.

“ _You remind me of a former love that I once knew / And you carry a little speech with you._ ”

He hoped Ryan hadn’t gotten lost on his way back to the apartment. Surely not. He was a smart boy. Besides, it wasn’t so far from Dallon’s. Ryan could figure it out. Ryan wouldn’t get lost. 

But what if he had? What if he’d gone down the wrong street accident and it was seven thirty and the sun was going down and Ryan was going to be trapped in Clearfield alone through the night. He didn’t even have a coat. Brendon made a mental note to lend him a coat. Would Ryan wear a coat if Brendon gave him one? It didn't matter, he'd force Ryan to wear it if he had to. He couldn't have Ryan Ross freezing to death in Clearfield. Of course, that was if Ryan made it home. 

_You fathead,_ Brendon cursed himself. _Get it together. Ryan’s fine. He’s fine._

He sang the whole song for Eric. Eric kept his eyes closed and smiled through the entire thing. He played another few chords when Brendon finished and slapped the side of the guitar. “Yes!”

Brendon laughed. “Good?”

“Great!” Eric cried. “Brendon Urie, you make my musical heart sing.” 

Brendon laughed again. “Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Eric Ronick, but I appreciate it.”

“No flattery, huh?” Eric asked, his voice teasing. He set his guitar differently in his lap to strum a few chords. “How did Dally manage?”

Brendon froze. “Sorry?”

“You are screwing him, aren’t you?” Eric asked casually, toying with the strings of his guitar. How did that roll off his tongue so easily? Jesus Christ. For the first time that night, Brendon was glad he wasn’t smoking. He would have choked on the fumes. Hell, he almost choked on the clean air around him. 

“What?” he asked, hoping he sounded offended. Part of him legitimately was. “No, I am not _screwing_ Dallon.”

“So he’s screwing you." Eric shrugged his shoulders. "I don’t care so much about the details of it—” 

“Eric!” Brendon screeched, successfully turning red in the face.

“Listen, I don’t care,” Eric said, as if that was what mattered to Brendon. If Eric thought the issue was if Brendon fucked Dallon or if Dallon fucked him. The mechanics of it weren’t what mattered. What mattered was that Eric thought they were having sex at all. Which they _weren't_. “Coming, going. Both ways. Who cares? You like what you like and that’s alright. Hey, that rhymes. I could write a song about that. But seriously, I don’t care what you do, Urie.”

“I care!” Brendon squawked. “I care that you think—Jesus, Eric! We are not— _not_ —having sex. Besides, I don’t even—We’re not—He’s my—”

What the hell was Dallon? Not his boyfriend; fags don’t date. They weren’t screwing. They were just—They were friends that kissed in closets at gay bars and now at Dallon’s house a few times. That wasn't anything at all.

There was no definition to Dallon and he, was there? 

What were they doing going from here? Dallon was in love with him. Dallon wanted a future with him. Wanted to sleep with him and kiss him and hold his hand. That sunk in deep, clawing at the insides of Brendon’s stomach. Oh God. 

Why couldn’t Brendon love him? Life would be so much easier if Brendon loved him. 

“I’ve kissed him maybe five times,” Brendon said in a more level tone. “Kissed _only_.”

Eric blinked a few times. Made an ‘o’ with his mouth. “So it’s a… it’s a love him thing with him then. Wait… Dally’s the former love? That doesn’t make sense.”

“There is no former love, Eric!” Brendon said desperately, doing his best not to raise his voice. He could see Nicole staring at him from across the room. “There is no current or former love of any kind! There is Dallon and there is Rya—”

He cut himself off abruptly. Snapped his mouth shut so hard he might have chipped a tooth. Sat there across from Eric, cheeks red and eyes as wide as they could stand to open. 

The smile that snaked over Eric’s face was villainous. “‘Ry’ you said? That wouldn’t happen to be a uhm… Ryan, didn’t you say his name was? Ryan from the war. Is he staying with you still? One bedroom apartment right?”

“Eric—” Brendon whispered.

“What’s Dally think about that?” Eric needed to stop smiling.

“Eric, this isn’t funny,” Brendon hissed. “And this has nothing to do with Ryan.”

Eric gasped, clapping his hands together loudly. “This has everything to do with Ryan! He’s your former love!”

“No, he’s not!” Brendon didn’t even believe himself.

“Wow. That’s—This is—You fascinate me, Brendon Urie. Does he know? Ryan? Does he know you love him?” 

Brendon’s voice came out thick. “I don’t love him.”

“So he _doesn’t_ know. Does Dally?” Eric’s expression went sorrowful. “Oh, Dally. He’s the one screwing you and doesn’t even know you’re in love with—” 

“Dallon is not screwing me!” Brendon felt the urge to throttle Eric. 

“But he wants to. Therein lies the problem.” Eric tapped a beat on his guitar. “Does Ryan know Dally wants you?”

There it was again, that ownership. 'Wants you.' No one could _have_ him for Christ's sake.

“Ryan doesn’t know jackshit,” Brendon answered bitterly. And that was the truth. Ryan didn’t know that Dallon and Brendon had kissed. Didn’t know that he sang at a gay club. Ryan didn’t even know Brendon _was_ gay. He didn’t know Brendon went to war to die. Didn’t know that Brendon was drunk when he mailed that napkin from Nowhere. There were too many things Ryan didn't know and Brendon was too good at lying.

“Huh.” Eric hummed to himself. “That is… quite the tale there, Urie. Why didn’t you write the song about that? Could sell a whole record based on your love life.”

Brendon stared at him and found Eric smiling stupidly. Brendon forced out a hard scoff which turned into a legitimate laugh. Eric Ronick. Goddamn Eric Ronick and Dallon Weekes and Ryan Ross. “This isn’t funny, Eric. This is so not funny. I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

“Hey, don’t look at me. Love is way above my pay grade.” Eric stood up to put the guitar back on the wall. Brendon started to stand too in time to see Jon Walker and Dallon Weekes entering from the stairs. He thanked God Dallon wasn’t around to hear his discussion with Eric. He wouldn't be able to live if he had. Brendon let his eyes linger on Dallon in his checkered shirt and khakis, messy hair and his eyes were narrowed on Jon and his mouth was fixed into a grimace. He was a very attractive man. Tall and his eyes were insanely blue and gorgeous to look at and he was a great kisser. And he wanted to have sex with Brendon. He wanted to love him too, which was arguably worse.

Brendon turned away swiftly before Dallon could catch his eye and followed after Eric, leaning his back against the wall to watch Eric stand the guitar up. He let out a long sigh. A sigh that meant a lot of things but mostly, _what the hell am I meant to do?_ Eric, of course, didn't have an answer.

“Can I ask a question?” Eric asked, straightening to be level with him.

“You have asked _so_ many questions,” Brendon said through a chuckle. 

“One more,” Eric offered.

“One more,” Brendon agreed.

Eric puckered his lips. Looked at Brendon from the corner of his eyes. “Let’s say you and Dally were screwing. Which one of you’s the pillow biter?”

Brendon closed his eyes slowly before opening them. He turned to Eric with a blank expression. “You know I was in war, Eric. So surely… you know that I have killed men before.”

Eric stared back. He smiled, raising his hands up in surrender. “Alright. I get it. Shouldn’t ask those sorts of things. No more questions like that. I've got one more though.” 

"You said—" Brendon started to complain but Eric cut him off. 

Eric kept his voice quiet so only the two of them could hear. "Do you love him?"

Brendon kept his expression blank. "Dallon or Ryan?"

"Dallon."

Brendon stared on.

"Ryan?" Even Eric sounded hesitant.

All Brendon could do was let out a small breath. A sigh. But he figured that was answer enough. A sigh could mean so many things. 

Eric nodded to himself. 

"C'mon," he said, veering the conversation elsewhere and Brendon had never been so thankful. Never wished he had a cigarette so bad. "Let's sing a song or two."

Brendon agreed to do the set. And he did. Sang every song he’d usually sing. Sang ‘I’ve Got the World on a String’ and looked at Dallon across the bar when he did. Dallon never took his eyes off him. So much love in those eyes, but something else that Brendon wasn't able to read. He was standing beside Jon Walker who didn’t let his eyes leave Brendon either but he didn’t mind so much. 

Brendon felt like he had Jon Walker exactly where he wanted him. Although, the way that Jon was staring back insinuated Jon thought the same thing about him. Only time could tell who had who where. Brendon wasn't all that excited to find out. 

He loved singing. He did. Although, something vaguely seemed like it was missing as he poured his voice out on the stage. As Dallon Weekes and Jon Walker watched him sing and Eric Ronick played piano, Brendon kept looking around for someone who shouldn’t have even been there.

Saw blue eyes and dark brown eyes but kept searching out those shatter-me whiskey ones.

When he finished, people clapped for him and he was sweating profusely. Could feel the dampness around his collar, the perspiration above his top lip, and the beads of liquid that ran down his face and clung to his hair. 

“Thank you so much,” he said into the microphone. He didn’t exactly know who he was thanking. The person he wanted to talk to wasn’t in the audience. “I’m Brendon Urie. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

He exited the stage and Eric continued to play the piano. 

“B,” Jon Walker exclaimed when Brendon sauntered over to him and Dallon, wiping the sweat off his forehead and sweeping his hair back. “Good to see you.”

“You too, Jon,” Brendon lied; he turned his eyes to slits. “Glad I’m not fired.”

Dallon raised his eyebrows, looking between Jon and Brendon but neither gave him an answer to the obvious question on his lips. 

“Hey Dal,” Brendon turned his attention to Dallon, voice going gentler on instinct. “I’m gonna head out.”

 _I’m gonna make sure Ryan Ross made it to my apartment and into my bed in one piece because I’m worrying myself mad that he got lost somewhere in Clearfield and I let him do it._

“Already?” Jon asked before Dallon had the chance. “Night’s still young, B. You got somewhere more important you need'ta go?”

“Yeah. Home,” Brendon answered, throwing Jon a fake grin. “I haven’t slept in about twenty-four hours now. I’m going to bed and I'm not getting up.”

Except that he couldn't go to bed because, hopefully, Ryan Ross was already occupying it. Brendon missed his bed. He was sure that Ryan would let him sleep in it if he asked. Sure that Ryan wouldn't mind sleeping on the couch. But at the same time, Brendon liked him sleeping in his bed. Liked seeing Ryan curled up in his blankets in his t-shirt and briefs, snoring softly. Like he belonged there.

Dallon furrowed his brow. “Why haven’t you slept in—”

“Been preoccupied.” Brendon looked Dallon in the face. “Haven’t seemed to be enough hours in the day.”

Dallon grimaced. He knew that meant Brendon had been too busy focusing on Ryan Ross. He was allowed to be jealous. He had all the reason in the world to be. “Right. Well, good luck then; with your sleep.”

Brendon couldn’t tell if he had been awkward on purpose. He laughed even if it wasn’t. Just in case it was. “Thanks. I’ll see you, Dal. You too, Jon.”

He turned to leave but Dallon stated quickly, “Wait, Brendon—”

“Yeah?” Brendon flipped back around to find Dallon stepping away from Jon to be closer to him. Far too close for public comfort.

“Can I—” Dallon swallowed, glancing down and then back at Brendon. His eyes were on Brendon's lips and he lowered his voice. “Can I kiss you good-bye?”

Brendon stared at him, wide-eyed. Dallon asked to kiss him. Low and small, with so much love in his eyes. He got extra points for that. For the way it made Brendon’s stomach flip and his heart beat off tune. But in public. At The Church. With Jon Walker not ten feet away. Points deducted. 

But Brendon couldn’t very well say no, could he? So he nodded. 

Dallon pressed a closed mouth kiss against Brendon’s lips and Brendon returned it. Simple, quick. No cause for concern. Brendon knew that Eric could see him from the stage. Everyone could see them. 

His cheeks were burning when he stepped back and his voice was pitched oddly to his own ears. “I’ll see you around, Dal.”

He didn’t wait to hear Dallon say good-bye back; he turned heel and practically ran. Half jogged to the stairs. Took them two at a time. The music was too loud. His heart was thundering in his chest. He was sweating too much. Drenched in salty liquid. 

He burst through the front doors, past Butch who didn't care he was running, and out into the cold night air of Clearfield, bending over instantly next to The Church, holding onto his knees for support and trying to catch his breath. Why was he out of breath? Why did his heart feel so wrong in his chest? 

His lips were tingling. He wiped his mouth. 

Oh God. 

He did his best to stand up straight, heaving out a sigh, wiping at the sweat that kept running down his brow. The last thing he needed was someone mistaking him for a drunk man hunched over on the sidewalk. He needed to get a hold of himself. 

_What the hell_ , he asked himself, continuing to wipe at the sweat on his face, _is going on with you?_

He didn’t have an answer. 

He shook his head. He needed to get home. That’s all he needed to do. Focus on one thing at a time. He needed to focus on getting home and making sure that Ryan hadn’t gotten lost. He didn’t need to think about if he loved Dallon or not. Didn’t need to think about if he was going to have sex with his best friend. He needed to go home. He needed to make sure Ryan hadn’t gotten lost in Clearfield. 

What if he had? What if Brendon showed up and Ryan was just gone? What would he do then?

Brendon’s heart wouldn’t slow down the entire walk home and when he came within half a mile of his apartment, he didn’t even care about it; he broke into a run. 

A dead sprint actually, to shoot up the stairs to his apartment. And he would have gotten to it as well had he not almost collided with the girl standing in the middle of the hallway. 

He skidded to a halt so fast he nearly fell but managed to catch himself on the wall with a hand when he slipped. 

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” the girl said abruptly, taking a step towards him to make sure he was alright. He pulled back. She was in her dressing gown and there were bags beneath her eyes. Were it not for her disheveled appearance, Brendon was sure she would have been very beautiful. Long black hair and dazzling blue eyes. A different shade than Dallon had. Not as bright but pretty all the same. At the moment though, Brendon couldn’t care less how pretty she was. He needed to get to his apartment. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m fine. Can I get by please?” Brendon asked her, trying to keep the panic from seeping into his voice. 

She made a small sound in her throat—probably disgruntlement, he had been rude; he’d apologize when he saw her again—and moved out of his way so he could get to his door. 

He was busy fumbling to get the key from his pocket when the girl said, in a voice that sounded to be alarm, “Wait? _You’re_ room 302?”

He blinked, glancing over his shoulder to see her staring at his door. He raised a brow, hands paused in his pockets. “Yeah...?”

“I’ve been trying to wake you up for the past fifteen minutes,” she said, at a loss that Brendon was standing right in front of her. 

He stopped trying to find his key entirely, arms dropping limply at his sides. “What?”

“I’ve been trying to wake you up; the noise has been nearly unbearable,” she tried again. “Been keeping me up all night, and I finally came to complain.”

Brendon’s heart started that incessant beating again. “Noise?”

What noise? What could possibly be making noise in his apartment? Ryan. Of course, it was Ryan, there was no one else it could be. But why would Ryan be making noise? Especially at this time in the morning? It was nearly three. He was the quietest person Brendon had ever known. 

“Shouting,” the girl said. “I thought someone was having it out in there. Bloody murder at one point, I swear it.”

Brendon’s heart successfully hit the floor. Shouting? Why would Ryan be shouting? Brendon couldn’t think of the words to say, just stared at the girl. His heart was beating out of his chest. 

“Maybe you left your T.V. on or something like that,” she suggested. She was trying to be helpful. She was nice. He’d talk to her again later. When he didn’t feel like he was going to explode in the middle of the hallway. 

“Right. I probably did.” Brendon didn’t own a T.V. “I’ll turn it off right now. I’m so sorry that—I’m sorry about the noise. I apologize for keeping you up.”

The girl nodded. Her arms were folded over her chest. She looked him up and down. Took into account his sweat-soaked clothes, his twitching fingers and the full-blown fear in his eyes. Her face softened and he bet she could hear his heart pounding. “It’s alright. Thank you.”

“Goodnight then,” Brendon said in reply and shoved his key in the lock. 

“I’m Sarah.”

“What?” Brendon didn’t mean to snap. 

“My name. It’s Sarah Orzechowski. I live across the hall from you,” she said. 

Brendon blinked. Wished he cared. “Brendon Urie. Nice to meet you. Goodnight.”

And once again he didn’t wait for an answering good-bye, slipping inside his apartment to shut the door after him with a click. 

“Ryan?” 

He did his best not to shout but barely managed as he stormed into the apartment. Sarah was right about the noise. The whines that were coming from his bedroom were louder than any he’d heard before. He was surprised he hadn’t heard them through the door. His heart must have been beating too loud. He couldn’t imagine how loud they had been for Sarah to have heard them down the hall.

“Ryan!”

He skidded into the bedroom to see Ryan Ross curled up in his bed, t-shirt and briefs, the covers kicked off him and onto the floor, his knees up to his chest and his hands clasped over his ears. And the sounds he was making. Good God, the _sounds_. It was like he was being strangled in his sleep. 

Whimpers and half-sobs, his eyes screwed shut and his lips forming incoherent syllables. 

The relief of seeing that Ryan had made it home was completely wiped out of Brendon’s mind at the sight of his friend in such a state of self-destruction. He rushed forward to the side of the bed, reaching out to grab Ryan’s hand. 

“Ryan?” He called out. “Ryan! Wake up; you’re having a nightmare.”

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to do to grab Ryan by the wrist as Ryan screamed at the contact. _Screamed._ A sharp, broken sound from a hoarse throat. 

Brendon jerked back in surprise, his heart plummeting to the floor. What the hell happened? Ryan had nightmares, sure, but none this bad. It had only ever been hesitant whines and whimpers under his breath. None where he curled in on himself and sobbed and screamed. None like that. 

“Ryan!” Brendon insisted, worry sprouting through his body. “Ryan! Wake up!”

He didn’t necessarily think it was the right idea to touch Ryan again but he couldn’t come up with any other options. He swallowed, unsure but determined, and reached out to grab both of Ryan’s wrists that were pressed flush against his ears. 

He did his best to pry them off and, at that point, Ryan shot out a bare foot to kick him. It caught Brendon harshly in the stomach and he doubled over, releasing Ryan’s wrist in favor of grabbing onto his abdomen, the breath knocked out of him momentarily. He hadn't expected Ryan to be that strong. Jesus, that hurt.

He fought to breathe again.

Ryan was yelling. Not actual words, just slurred pleas and calls for help. Brendon’s heart was breaking in his chest. He was trying to help. He was _trying_. 

Brendon, despite the pain that blossomed in his stomach—that would be a nasty bruise later—clambered up onto the bed, not caring about his shoes ruining the sheets. He could wash them. Ryan was more important than his bedsheets. He made a grab for Ryan again, gripping at his flailing arms and pinning them at his sides. Ryan’s legs, however, would not stop trying to kick at him so Brendon couldn’t think of any other option than to climb on top of Ryan and straddling his hips. 

“Ryan!” He shouted, hoping to shout above Ryan’s own cries. 

He had Ryan’s wrists pinned beside his head on the mattress, Ryan's legs trapped beneath him. Brendon raised his voice the best he could and the next scream he let out was enough to rip at the inside of his throat, burn up through it and make his voice feel numb. 

“ _ **RYAN!**_ ” 

Silence fell. 

Ryan’s chest heaved up and down and his body quivered beneath Brendon, the only sound in the room his residual tiny sobs, breaths falling in labored, uneven gasps. Brendon could feel the move of Ryan's body beneath him, fighting to get a proper breath in and he realized abruptly that he needed to get off. He climbed off of Ryan as hurriedly as he could, kneeling on the sheets beside him, slightly bent over Ryan’s form. There was still sweat running down his face.

“Ryan,” he whispered and his voice cracked, ruined from the scream he had let out.

Ryan took in a shaky, heaving gasp. There were tear stains down his cheeks and Brendon couldn’t resist the urge to reach up and wipe them away with his palms.

Ryan flinched when Brendon’s skin touched his own. 

“It’s okay,” Brendon said beneath his breath. The room was eerily quiet. He wiped the tears from beneath Ryan’s shut eyes and smoothed back his hair. Ryan was sweating too. “It’s okay.”

Ryan swallowed. His voice was so damn small, still half-asleep. “Bren?”

“Yeah," Brendon answered weakly. "You had a nightmare. That’s all. You’re fine. You’re in Clearfield, Utah. With me, Brendon. It’s okay. You’re fine.” 

Ryan couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Brendon smoothed his hair over again and again, not sure what else to do as Ryan laid on his bed, trembling. It was then that Brendon noticed the glint of silver around his neck and disappearing curled up beneath Ryan's t-shirt. His apartment key. 

“Ryan,” he hissed, reaching down to take the chain from beneath Ryan’s t-shirt. “You could have choked yourself with this. No wonder you were having a damn nightmare.”

He used one hand to lift Ryan’s head up—Ryan didn't protest; he let Brendon move him about willingly—and the other to tug the chain from around Ryan's neck and deposit it on the bedside table. The chain clattered onto the wood.

It was the goddamn dog tag. Ryan must have mistaken the feeling of the chain for his dog tag. What the hell was he thinking; sleeping with that damn chain around his neck? Why hadn’t he taken it off?

He glanced back at Ryan, laying there shivering in his bed, dripping with cold sweat, and breathing uneasily, tears still leaking from his eyes down his cheeks. Goddammit. Brendon had thought that when he first saw Ryan sitting on his couch, littered in bruises his dad gave him, that he had been fragile. And then he had given Ryan a bath, seen the way his ribs poked out of his skin and he let Brendon move him and poke and prod wherever he wanted. Downright breakable. And now this. _This._

Ryan laying there in his bed, cold sweat and dried tears, shaking like he couldn't get a grip of himself. He turned over slightly, onto his side, and tried to curl in on himself again. He was half asleep, breathing shallow and worrying to Brendon's ear. This. 

This boy was fucking broken.

Brendon bent down to gather all the blankets from the floor and toss them back on the bed, carefully tucking them around Ryan as gently as he could. He worried if he moved too quickly Ryan might start screaming again. The sound rang in his ears; he doubted he'd be able to forget it.

He stood there next to the bed for a moment, looking down at Ryan huddled into the covers. His breathing hadn’t begun to even out yet, just as desperate and pained. Brendon didn’t know what he was supposed to do. 

He had no idea what he was supposed to do these days. 

Ryan rolled over again, this time towards Brendon, tucking his face into the pillow and his arms around himself. He couldn’t stop fucking trembling.

Brendon knew what he _should_ do. He should turn and leave the room, close the door on his way out, and sleep on the couch. That’s what he should do. Sleep alone away from the temptation of a shivering, broken Ryan Ross.

Ryan Ross was not his problem. Ryan Ross’s war-torn nightmares were none of his concern. If Ryan Ross screamed in his sleep, if he cried. The fact that he couldn’t seem to stop shivering should not matter to Brendon. But it did. It mattered so goddamn much. Brendon let out a defeated sigh, picking up the covers and pushing himself in next to Ryan. The bed dipped beneath his weight.

He would stay for just a minute. He'd warm Ryan up, get him so he wasn't trembling so god-awful and then he'd leave and he'd go sleep on the couch and they would never mention it happened. It didn't mean anything. Didn't mean jackshit.

“Come here,” Brendon mumbled, reaching out to take Ryan's forearm and tug him closer. Ryan's skin was cold and clammy but Brendon didn’t mention it. Didn't mention how his heart hammered when he pulled Ryan toward him in the bed or how his own skin burned impossibly hot. 

Ryan was mostly asleep but he didn’t shift away when Brendon held him loosely. Because if Ryan didn't want Brendon to hold him, he'd let him go. But Ryan didn't. In fact, he pressed himself closer into Brendon’s embrace, burying his face into Brendon’s wrinkled seersucker shirt. Brendon felt half out of breath. Ryan had his arms trapped between Brendon’s chest and his own, hands balled into fists, and one of his legs automatically went between Brendon’s own, seeking warmth.

Brendon inhaled sharply. 

Dallon would be furious if he ever found out. No. Dallon would be heartbroken. But it didn’t have to be weird. It didn’t have to be. And it certainly didn't have to mean anything. Brendon had his friends that he kissed in gay bar closets and he had his friends he slept with in his bed. Goddammit. Brendon hated his life. He hated his timing and his plans and the fact that he didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to be doing with any of this. He hated Dallon Weekes for loving him and he hated Ryan Ross for being too small. Too broken.

Eric's voice was ringing in his ears. _Does Ryan know you love him?_

No. Because Brendon didn't. 

He didn't love Ryan Ross. Didn't love his shatter-me whiskey eyes. He didn't love that Ryan went to war and the only thing he could think to steal was a baby bible. Didn't love that he wrote songs to his girlfriend. Didn't love that Ryan missed the smell of coffee and boring taxi-drivers or that he liked his suspenders or the color burgundy was his favorite or that he turned everything to blues. He didn't love Ryan Ross and his fucked leg and his nervous smile. 

He didn't love Ryan Ross.

Ryan was almost entirely asleep but he still managed to mumble into Brendon’s shirt in a slurred way, his voice hoarse from screaming and so very small, “Bren?”

“Yeah?” Brendon breathed out into Ryan's hair. He had his chin on top of his head and rubbed Ryan's arms with his hands, trying to will heat back into the freezing skin. He hoped Ryan couldn’t hear how loud his heart was beating.

“Stay please.”

Brendon’s body went rigid. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Did Ryan Ross even know what he was doing? Did he know he was breaking Brendon's heart? 

This was a bad idea. This was actually a more than bad idea. This was singularly the _worst_ idea Brendon had ever had in his entire life. And he knew that. He knew it too well. But he held Ryan closer against his chest and he stayed. 

“Of course.”

Stupidly, he stayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a 10,000-word chapter; courtesy of my fucked up outline. Hope you enjoyed! Also, this chapter was technically finished like two and a half days ago but I am at the beach with family this week (yay, I love that I scheduled everything for the first three weeks of summer). And I didn't want you guys to wait seven days between one chapter, so I postponed it. Next chapter will be out Sunday or Monday (unless by some miracle I have free time). Thanks for reading, I really appreciate it!


	23. Complaints About Clashing Colors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A miracle! I had time!

Ryan Ross wasn’t so familiar with love. It didn’t make a lot of sense to him and he knew his definition of love was different than others. Granted, he’d only ever _loved_ one girl. Elizabeth Berg. And now? Now he loved Brendon Urie. 

Ryan had only ever loved two people. Elizabeth Anne Berg after they’d been dating for a while and now Brendon after three years in France together. Very similar sorts of love while at the same time different. He couldn’t explain it to himself though. 

Couldn’t explain love. Could anyone? He needed a second opinion.

Ryan had only ever loved two people. Elizabeth Anne Berg and now Brendon Boyd Urie. Not to say, that he hadn’t loved other things before. He had. He loved his yo-yo before his father took it from him. Loved the smell of coffee and boring taxi drivers. 

Ryan loved a lot of things. Brendon Urie just happened to be one of them. 

And there used to be a point in time, not so long ago, that Ryan Ross loved his house in Nevada.

It was before France and it was certainly before Brendon Urie. Before Ryan came back—alone—and everything had changed, none of it for the better. Ryan didn’t love his house anymore. There was nothing good about that house after war. Not a thing. 

But there was a time, when Ryan was eighteen, that he loved his house in Las Vegas, Nevada. 

Loved that tiny one bedroom shotgun house with barely any furniture and even less class to speak of. A house with peeling paint and ugly beige ceilings and creaky wooden boards to walk across. He loved how perfectly imperfect that piece of shit was. 

Ryan Ross wasn’t oblivious when he was eighteen. He recognized what garbage it was. What absolute festering crap his house was. But it was _his_. So few things had been Ryan’s. A yo-yo once upon a time that his father took from him. Used to have a mom. Didn’t anymore. There was a lot the world gave him and decided to take away. 

But that house in Vegas when he was eighteen? That was his. All his. And he loved that. 

It was a house that was built in the early ’20s and looked as much. Small and rickety and made of lopsided boards and with shingles on the roof. It didn't look absolutely terrible from the front and any random person might think it was a good house. Seeing the inside though, would most likely be enough to put them off. 

Ryan had never met who built the house but if he did, he would tell them they’d done a right shit job. Then he’d laugh and clap them on the back. They would probably think he was kidding. He wouldn’t be. 

The house was simple enough. A single bedroom with a bed that had a stiff mattress and harder pillows. Like sleeping on a brick, that bed. But Ryan supposed that prepared him for war though, didn’t it? He couldn’t complain about sleeping on the ground when it was comfier than any bed he had ever had. 

His bedroom had a tall dresser in the corner, opposite his bed, and termites had eaten a hole in the bottom of the left door. When Ryan had first gotten the house he would bend down on his hands and knees and look into the hole; see if he could make out anything through the darkness. He never could. 

The dining room table wasn’t one. It was a lawn table he’d bought on sale and two lawn chairs in the middle of his kitchen. The kitchen, which was small, stunk like rotten fruit and Ryan had never figured out how to fix it. After a few weeks, he stopped being able to notice it at all. 

There was a living room that had a small sofa—big enough for two thin people and no one else. A fat person would be screwed if they came over to Ryan Ross’s—luckily no one was fat in the 30s with everyone’s financials screwed to all Hell; not enough money to buy food if you were desperate for it. And a coffee table that had rings on the wood from past cups—the table was his fathers so it had its fair share of beer stains—and scratches where a pocket knife had dug G.R.R into the wood.

His father hit him on the back with a belt four times when he was thirteen in 1935 for doing that to the coffee table. Hard enough to make a lasting scar, but you had to be looking for it to notice and, of course, no one ever looked. It was worth it anyhow. Ryan liked the way the indents felt beneath his fingers when he rubbed them. 

But, at the same time, he didn’t like seeing G.R.R whenever he looked at the table. Made so aware who bought the house for him. So very aware of who could take it from him if they ever saw fit.

Ryan wouldn’t lie—and he wasn’t oblivious—his house and pretty much everything in it was shit. But he loved it. He loved that it was his and his alone. And he loved it even more, a month after he got it, that Z had come over to see. 

He remembered when he was eighteen; Z and he had been dating for seven months. He was almost positive he was in love with her. He was going to tell her too. For seven of those months—the last two—he hadn’t seen her. She had been on a trip with her family to see relatives. He didn’t remember where to; somewhere hot because she had developed a tawny hue and glowed a vibrant shade of gold when he opened the door to find her standing there. 

He hadn’t seen her for two months then—the whole summer nearly—and when he opened the door to find her there, a vision, it became so blatantly obvious to him. He was in love with her. But he couldn’t very well just blurt that out after not seeing her for two months so he beckoned her inside. 

“Hi, Z,” he had said to her and couldn’t keep a beaming smile off his face. 

“Hi, Ryan,” Z had said back and smiled back. 

She had painted her lips red and her amber eyes were lined with black, making them look impossibly wider. A curl of blond hair from her tied up hair went across her forehead. She was radiant. 

Ryan had missed her. Missed her those two months in 1939 when he hadn’t seen her. Missed her for three years when he was in France. And, if he was being honest, still missed her when he was in Clearfield in 1945. Although, Ryan figured he’d probably miss Z forever. The same way he missed Spencer Smith. Missed what he could have had. What he used to. 

He hugged her tightly to show it. To show a lot of things. It was the best way he could think to say ‘I love you’ without actually saying it. There was a moment when they held each other, his hands around her waist and hers circling the back of his neck. He bumped his nose to hers and she kissed him. 

He remembered what Z tasted like. Dark, smearing lipstick and cherries. Sweet but in a different way than sugar. A more artificial way, Ryan thought. Not untamed like sugar. If he kissed Brendon, how would he taste?

Z and he had kissed in his door frame and she smiled into his mouth, laughing like something was funny. Ryan hadn’t known what it was but he had laughed too and let her fully inside his house, shutting the door with his foot. 

They had swayed together into the living room and Ryan had promptly hit his ankle on the shitty coffee table, eliciting a small cry of pain, a trip, and the two somehow managed to fall onto the floor, Z resting on top of his stomach. 

They had laughed. 

Ryan remembered how his ankle ached and the bruise it had created a week later. But it hadn’t mattered as he lay on the musky carpet of his shotgun house, Elizabeth Berg lying on top of him, laughing. 

It felt like all they could do that day. Laugh. Laugh and laugh until Ryan’s stomach hurt and his side cramped and Z’s makeup smeared at the corners of her eyes because she had tears running from them. 

Z had gone to kiss him again from where they were laying on his floor and Ryan had started to sit up to meet her before she stopped, reeling back a little upon seeing him more closely. 

Maybe Ryan should have left the lights out. 

He knew what she was looking at instantly. 

He had been over to see his father earlier that same day. They had gotten into an argument—Ryan couldn’t remember what about; it was never anything important or worth remembering—and there was a cut on his lip where his father had slapped him. 

Ryan kept tonguing at it, fascinated by how it stung. 

He felt awkward all of a sudden, laughter dying in his chest as she stared at the mark on his skin. It had stopped bleeding and it really wasn’t that bad; she shouldn’t stare. It was a thin red slit that sat on his bottom lip, surrounded by a yellowish splotch of bruising. It would fade in time. 

“What’s that?” Z had asked him, looking over it with concern knitting her brow together.

“Nothing,” he had lied, glancing to the side.

“That’s not nothing, Ryan.” She sat next to him on the carpet, the laughter fading away and Ryan wished there was some way to get it back. 

She willed him to sit up as well by tugging his forearm. Her grip wasn’t tight, fingers wrapped loosely around the limb. He propped himself up reluctantly and she went to cup his cheek with a hand, running her thumb over the split in his lip. 

He tilted his head into her palm and she gave him a sad look with her amber eyes. She was beautiful. Her hair tied up neatly into a bun with one curl across her forehead. She was wearing a tight blue dress—sky blue—that complimented her new tanned complexion and her blonde hair. A black belt was wrapped snugly around her middle and she’d painted her nails to match. 

Ryan had loved her. Ryan had loved her so much. 

He said to her, taking her by the wrist to pull her hand away, “Really, it’s nothing, Z. Just got into a bit of a scruff is all. I’m fine, really I am.” 

She batted her long eyelashes, sitting back on her heels. Held Ryan in her gaze; big amber eyes with her eyebrows angled up, darting from his eyes to his cut lip. That was pity. That was absolutely pity. 

Ryan shifted, grimacing. “Would you quit looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” She asked like she didn’t know. 

“Like you care,” he said, trying to pull off a small chuckle to make her think everything was still funny. She didn’t laugh and he held her hand closer. Kissed her knuckles. 

Her voice was kind when she returned, “I do care.”

“How’s your dad?” Ryan blurted, sitting up straighter and letting go of her hand, an attempt to change the subject. 

He didn’t need to hear about people caring about him. It didn’t sound right from someone else’s mouth. Z was the only person in the world that had ever told Ryan she cared about him. Spencer never had. His father certainly hadn’t. And there wasn’t anybody else in the world back then. 

Brendon had never said it. Not that he was obligated. Ryan understood why he wouldn’t. 

“He’s alright,” Z answered but her eyes were focused on Ryan’s lips, her mind elsewhere besides her father’s wellbeing.

“He still have that girlfriend?” Ryan prompted.

Ryan always wished that his own father would invest in a girlfriend. A woman’s touch would have been nice. Having a mom would have been lovely, eighteen year old Ryan Ross thought. He wouldn’t have even felt like his old mother was being replaced. Couldn’t replace what you never had. Ryan had always wanted a real mother. Not a biological one. 

Someone else who would tell him they cared.

“No. He and Stacy broke up two weeks ago,” Z said wistfully and rolled over to lay down, Ryan following suit so they both laid on his grungy floor, staring up at the dirty beige ceiling that he wished had stars. They were eighteen and Z was newly tan and Ryan had a cut on his lip where his father slapped him and he was in love with her. “Big fight too.”

“How come?” Ryan asked, because he figured he should.

Z shrugged. “She fucked someone else.”

He choked on a laugh in the back of his throat. Forced out a sound. “Oh.” 

Girls didn’t usually talk like that. Definitely not in public. Wasn’t ‘lady-like’ which Ryan had never understood. ‘Lady-like.’ That didn’t mean anything. 

Z did though. Said what she wanted to say when she wanted to say it and how she wanted to. And nine times out of ten Z said the smartest stuff. She talked in such a pretty way and she spoke of such pretty things. 

Ryan always wished he could see the world how Z saw it. The world sounded so nice when she spoke of it in that pretty way of her’s. The world sounded worth something when Z told him about it. He never believed they were looking at the same place. 

He wished he could live in the world Z did. One where there were stars on the ceilings and the houses weren’t so shitty. 

“Doesn’t really matter though. I didn’t like her so much. She didn’t love him. Not really. Just wanted a bed to sleep in and a man to kiss. Simple, stupid thing.” 

Z let out an off-tune hum. Did it again—the beginning to a melody—and Ryan knew the song. ‘Cheerful Little Earful,’ by Jack Albin. He wasn’t such a big fan but he knew the words. 

His fingers were itching to hold her and he wanted to tell Z he loved her. He wanted to tell someone. 

“Sing that won’t you?” Ryan asked her because he couldn’t think of a way to say ‘I love you’ just yet. “I wanna hear you sing it.”

She obliged. 

Z had a soothing voice. Sweet, supple. Demure. It was good. 

Sure, she was no Frank Sinatra. Certainly no Brendon Urie. No one had a voice that good. But she was alright. Alright enough to make Ryan smile and close his eyes, listening to her voice. 

“ _There's a cheerful little earful / Gosh I miss it something fearful / And this cheerful little earful / Is the well known_ —” 

"I love you," Ryan blurted out and he did. 

She glanced over. Blinked. Smirked a bit and shook her head. Poked him in the side with a finger, chuckling. “Thanks for stealing my line.”

“I wasn’t singing the song,” he said blankly, squirming away from her finger but turning his head to look at her. His heart had taken to a new rhythm. He’d never told someone he loved them before. But that didn’t make it any less true. Ryan thought he knew what love was when he was eighteen. And that definition definitely included what he thought of Z.

Z stared at him with those big amber eyes and his whiskey ones mixed with them as he stared back. Whiskey and amber. They didn’t go together so well.

“I love you,” he repeated, wary, and he still did. 

There was silence. 

“This is the part where you say it back,” he whispered, voice strained to his own ears.

Z laughed, the sweet sound filling the room that smelled like rotten fruit. Her voice made the air ripe again. And Ryan couldn’t believe when she said it back. “I love you too, Ryan Ross, you fathead. I love you too.”

She kissed the cut on his lip and he pretended it didn’t hurt, kissing her back. He loved Elizabeth Berg. He loved her more than anything in the world. And she loved him too. _Holy hell_ , she loved him too. 

“This floor feels like shit,” she said into his mouth. Her lips tasted like lipstick and the red stained Ryan’s own lips. He didn’t like the taste of it but her smile made up for it.

Ryan licked at the cut on his lip that was dyed redder by the makeup. It burned. He admitted, “It does.”

“How comfortable is your bed?” She teased and there was a darker tone to her voice.

“Not very,” he answered, vaguely becoming aware of what she was insinuating. The afternoon wasn’t as funny as it had been. Z was proposing sex. He knew that. He wasn’t an idiot. She wanted to have sex with him. That’s what she wanted. He didn’t want to do that. He did _not_ want to do that. 

“Bet it’s better than the floor,” she said in a lowered voice and kissed him again. Her lipstick was actually quite disgusting the more that Ryan’s tongue tasted it. 

He said, nervously, worming away from Z to prop himself up on his elbows on the floor, “I’m not Stacy.”

“What?”

Ryan pulled back and smiled, hoping to cover up the way his heart was beating. “I don’t just _fuck_ people.”

Z smirked at him. She kissed him again and her lips just weren’t as sweet. Moved to the shell of his ear, nudging it with her nose and mumbling, “Why did you whisper when you said fuck?”

“It’s a bad word.”

Z snorted and tapped her forehead to Ryan’s. He loved her. She loved him. They were eighteen and they were in love and Ryan lived in his own house in Las Vegas by himself that was pretty much all around shit. But when Elizabeth Berg was there, he loved that house. 

But he didn’t want to have sex with her.

Another thing Ryan had never understood about love. Sex. What was that? Why did it matter? Why was everyone so obsessed with it? 

Ryan Ross was eighteen years old and had just told his girlfriend of seven months that he loved her for the first time. He’d said ‘I love you’ to anyone for the first time. But he didn’t want to have sex with her or anyone. 

He wanted to kiss her and hold her hand and make her laugh. Sex wasn’t anywhere on that list.

Ryan loved a lot of things. Not sex. But he loved his girlfriend, Elizabeth, and later in life he loved his best friend, Brendon. 

And, there was one point in time when he loved his house in Nevada. One point in time when Elizabeth Berg was there and she loved him too. 

They hadn’t had sex that night. Only once had they ever had sex; when Ryan was twenty-one. Three years later. Had sex once and then Ryan went off to war for three years and then they broke up. 

Ryan was a tease. She never should have loved him. 

But Ryan never regretted loving Z. Especially not when later that evening she coaxed him into his own bed to lay down with her. She kicked off her shoes and took his off for him. He hadn’t complained; he had socks on. 

They laid there together, 1939 the day that Ryan told her he loved her for the first time, on top of the covers in his shitty bed in his shitty house in shitty old Nevada that he only loved when Z loved him. 

They laid together on his stiff mattress, on top of the itchy covers fully clothed, and Z had nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck. Undone the first two buttons on his shirt and kissed his collarbones. He’d let her; he didn’t mind that. 

He loved kissing her. Loved kissing her temple and her hands and her lips and one time she’d let him kiss behind her ear but that had sent her into a fit of giggles and Ryan had actually almost pissed himself she had squealed so loud so he hadn’t ever tried that again. 

Z liked to kiss collar bones and chests and three times he’d let her suck a mark on the base of his neck where it met his shoulder. The first time he hadn’t realized and had been mortified when Spencer had pointed it out at school. The second time she had started it up again and he’d told her off but it was already blossoming into a purple blemish so there wasn’t much else he could do. And the third time he had been watching a picture show and had really been too engrossed in the movie to ask her to stop. 

As they lay together in his bed when they were eighteen, Z went to sucking on his neck, creating a warm suction on his skin with her mouth. It wasn’t all that pleasant, but he knew she liked it and he loved her and after all—he had just told her he loved her for the very first time and then proceeded to deny sleeping with her (which no eighteen-year-old boy did) so he probably owed her that much. 

Besides, he lived alone. No one would see it. 

She kissed up his neck to his jaw were she mouthed again—as if she was trying to make his whole neck black and blue. Similar to how Brendon’s had been in Nancy. But Ryan tilted his head down so she couldn’t get access to it as easily and was forced to kiss his mouth. 

She didn’t protest, only touched their lips together gently a few times. 

“Did you know,” she asked for the first time since they lay down, speaking in between pecks of his lips. “That we are both eighteen years old?”

“I did,” he answered and kissed her again. He could sense where the conversation was headed and he knew that his hands were sweating.

“And you—” Kiss. “Live alone?”

“Knew that too,” he answered, chewing at his lip. He thought maybe the cut was starting to bleed again.

“You can drink now too,” she said. He perked up a little; that was a new line of questioning. Maybe he could get out of it after all. 

“Yep.” He missed her lips and kissed beneath her nose. She grinned but didn’t say anything.

“And we have been dating for…?”

“Seven months now I think,” he answered and he really wasn’t too sure when exactly it was. He hadn’t been counting the days.

“Uh huh,” she moved back down to his collar bones; he let her. “And you love me.”

He repeated, the words so delicious on his tongue—why had he waited so long to say it? Nothing tasted better than those words. “I love you.”

She pressed a chaste kiss to the bruise she had created on his neck. “But you don’t want to have sex with me?”

His heart skipped a beat. Should have known. He didn’t. No, no, no he didn’t. It didn’t have anything to do with Z. Ryan just didn’t want to have sex. He swallowed, hesitant to say, “No.” 

She kept kissing his collar bones, and the beginnings of his sternum. His skin was itching where she touched it. He didn’t have a good track record with girls and sex. Only two girlfriends. One of which he loved, Z. The other was a girl who wanted to have sex with him. A girl he didn’t love and never wanted to have sex with. She had broken up with him because of it. What if Z felt the same way?

He asked timidly, “Do you want to have sex with _me_?” 

Z pulled herself up from his collar bones to hover over his face, propping herself up on either side of him with her elbows. Blinked those round amber eyes. Said it so matter-of-factly. No shame. “Yes I do.”

Ryan gulped audibly. 

“Why don’t you want to have sex with me?” she asked and he was glad she didn’t sound mad or repulsed or worried. She sounded only interested and cocked her head. More blonde locks of hair had fallen from her bun. 

“I don’t want to have sex with anyone,” Ryan answered honestly. He had to be honest with Z. He was a shit liar.

“Huh.” She nodded, more to herself than to Ryan. “Why not?”

Ryan shook his head, shrugging timidly. He didn’t really know. He wished to God he did. “I just don’t.”

“Is it a religious thing?” She was sitting on his hips. 

“No.”

She shifted. “Huh.”

“Is it… okay…? If I don’t want to have sex with you?” Ryan asked softly, looking up at Z with big eyes. He’d dated two girls. One was Elizabeth Berg and the other was a girl named Keltie who he’d dated when he was sixteen and seventeen. The sex thing had been a big problem for her. 

Not that she’d broken his heart when she dumped him. She hadn’t. But Z could. Not 'could,' actually. Z _would_. She had.

“Is it okay if I kiss you on the neck?” She asked in a tune.

“Yeah,” Ryan answered. If that was what it took he’d let her do just about anything. If there was a way for her to love him and not have sex with him, he was alright with anything. He should have said it was religion. He wasn’t religious. He’d actually never been to church. But he should have made something up. 

“Then sure,” she said, rolling off his hips to lay beside him. He was worried she might get off the bed but she stayed. Pressed herself against his side and wrapped her arm around his middle. “It’s alright.”

He snapped his head to the side. Stared at her. “Really?”

“Of course,” she said and leaned over to plant a kiss his forehead. “Besides, we’ve got time. Not like I’m a whore or something. I’m not gonna beg you, Ryan. We can do it whenever you want to. And if you never want to, that’s alright too. I’m not in any hurry.”

Ryan laid there in shock for a second. He hadn’t expected that. Elizabeth Berg was perfect, wasn’t she? She was home.

Without thinking too much about it, Ryan grabbed Z by both sides of her face and pulled her up to kiss him. 

When he broke away, she was smiling. 

He shook his head, disbelieving. His voice was quiet, desperate. It got better every time he said it. “I _love_ you.”

She smirked. “So you said.”

“But I do.” He darted his eyes all over her face. “I really really do.”

She took both of his hands from her face. Returned his kiss from earlier with mirroring pecks to each of his knuckles. “I know you do, Ryan.”

She kissed him and kissed him and laughed and he laughed too. Like anything at all was funny. 

He remembered that they had fallen asleep together that night. Or, more accurately, Z fell asleep on top of him and he stayed awake for a while to listen to her breathe. She had her head tucked into the crook of his neck, breathing against the skin she had made sensitive by kissing. She had successfully turned it purple. 

He wondered if she was proud of that. He was. It was physical proof that someone loved him. 

He loved her. Loved how she fit against him, how she spoke to him, how she kissed him and how she saw the world. He loved laying with her in his stiff bed in his shitty shotgun house. Ryan loved her. 

He remembered how her breathing sounded when she fell asleep on top of him, her hair tickling his nose. He had tried not to sneeze on her head. Ryan had only been dating her for a little over half a year but he knew that night that he was in love with her. Made a conscious decision in his mind. _I’m in love_ , he’d thought. And he had been.

He had loved that shitty shotgun house in Las Vegas, Nevada but he had loved Z more. 

So when he woke up roughly two weeks after he returned from France and felt someone holding him in bed, he didn’t jump to any rash conclusions. Just assumed that it was Z. There was no one else that would hold him bed, anyhow. Although it was sort of different than how it had been. 

Z had never held _him_ before. 

But it was rather nice, the feeling of a body against his back, hands wrapped around his middle. He should tell Z to do this more often. He hadn’t ever felt so safe in his entire life, completely enveloped in the comfort of another human being. The press of another person’s chest against his spine, wrapped around him from behind. There was an arm over his middle and labored breath on the back of his neck and Ryan was so _warm_.

So impossibly warm like he’d never been cold before. Although perhaps he was too hot. There was sweat dotting his brow; he could feel it. And when he blinked a few times, trying to force sleep from his eyes, something was dried on his cheeks. 

Sweat? No… 

Tears? Had he been crying?

The breath behind him came in slowly and he could tell the person wrapped around him was asleep, the rise and fall of their stomach obvious against his spine. He could feel their heartbeat and every breath they took against him. Were they snoring? Z didn’t snore. 

There were lips against the back of his neck. Delicate and tender, ghosting over his own skin. The sensation tickled as their breathing came in small gasps and blew out against his flesh. The hair on the back of his neck prickled with the feeling. 

Although it then occurred to him, his brain starting to piece things together slowly, that Z and he had been broken up for nearly two weeks. Longer than that, really, if you counted the war. He hadn’t slept with Z in over three years. 

And the arm that was tossed over him wasn’t a female arm at all. It was a man’s. That caused Ryan to furrow his brow because what sort of man would be—

His blood ran cold. 

That was Brendon. That was Brendon Urie holding him from behind. 

Ryan’s body caught on fire at that moment—his cold blood going all too hot—every single nerve in his body set aflame and it was like he was dying. Dying, dying; he was burning. On fire and he had to get away.

But he forced himself to stay completely still even with his body screaming to get out of the red zone. He stayed frozen in place. Had to figure this out first. Before he even thought about moving he had to assess the situation. Had to make sense of what the hell was happening right now. 

Brendon Urie was spooning him. In his bed. In his apartment. And it didn’t feel anything like Las Vegas, Nevada. This bed was comfortable and they were beneath the covers, unlike what he and Z had done. Beneath the covers, pressed together, Brendon’s chest to his spine and his mouth to the back of Ryan’s neck.

Brendon Urie was asleep behind him, holding him in his arms and his breath was tickling the back of Ryan’s neck and Ryan was in love with him.

His body was burning up. 

He was in love with Brendon Urie. He was in fucking _love_ with Brendon Urie—the second person in the world he’d ever loved—and the day after he finally realized it, that same man decided to come into bed and spoon him? 

Fate was merely playing games at this point. 

What the hell was Brendon doing in bed with him? Ryan supposed that yes, it _was_ Brendon’s bed but he was the one sleeping in it. What had gone through Brendon’s brain that he decided to hop into bed beside Ryan? For the life of him, nothing could come to mind. 

A follow-up curiosity; why did Ryan have dried tears on his cheeks?

A lot of questions. Not a lot of answers.

Ryan didn’t know if he should wake Brendon or not. He considered it, but then he thought to himself when he would have another chance to have Brendon Urie’s arms around him. Never, most likely. 

So he calmed himself, tried to keep his breathing even. Took in a sharp breath and held it tightly in his lungs. Tried to keep his heart rate down but the blood pumped loudly in his ears. He hoped Brendon couldn’t hear it. 

Brendon grumbled something out under his breath and stirred in his sleep. Moved his hand up on Ryan’s arm, pressing his body closer in search of warmth so nothing divided Ryan’s back and Brendon’s front. Ryan felt like maybe he was shaking.

It wasn’t a bad feeling, Brendon tight against him. He loved the way Brendon’s hands felt on him actually. His fingers were scratchy, worn but not irritating. A way that Ryan knew meant he had been to war. Brendon felt like war and he smelled like stale sweat and smoke. 

Brendon Urie _was_ war. 

And God, Ryan had missed the fight. War was home. War had been home for the last three years. So technically… Brendon was home. Brendon Urie was his home. Or, more accurately, Ryan _wanted_ him to be. So he didn’t dislike the feeling, but it was new. 

It was odd and new and it was frankly the closest he’d ever been to another man. It was. Not that he minded all that much. Not when it was Brendon whose arms were holding him.

Ryan had never so much as hugged Spencer before. Not ever. And never his father. The closest he and his father had been was a fist to the jaw or a chair to the leg. 

The closest Ryan had ever been to another man was Brendon. It had always been Brendon when they slept next to each other on ponchos in the dirt or when Brendon cut his eyebrow and Ryan had sat in his lap to clean it. Or when Ryan came to Brendon’s house a few days prior and Brendon had given him a bath with gentle hands and a washcloth.

It had always been Brendon. If there was ever a man Ryan Ross was going to sleep in bed with, it would have been Brendon Urie. 

And it felt good. Too good.

But no this wasn’t right. Two men sleeping together in one bed—one of them in _love_ —that was wrong. This was very wrong. This was so insanely wrong. 

Did Brendon even realize what he was doing? He had never leaned away from touching. He was quick to shake hands or pat someone on the shoulder or the back. Quick to wear another man’s wedding ring. But sleeping with someone? Sleeping so close? To a man no less? 

Maybe Brendon was drunk. Maybe he was just a touchy drunk and forgot Ryan was in his bed and when he climbed in he said ‘screw it’ and stayed. 

That was probably it. There was no other reason Brendon would want to sleep with Ryan. He was drunk. He’d regret it when he woke up. What if he didn’t remember getting into the bed either? Oh, that would be a very awkward conversation. 

If Brendon didn’t remember and he woke up to find Ryan held against him. Would he blame Ryan? What if he did? It wasn’t Ryan’s fault; he was just as confused. But that was _if_ Brendon was drunk. 

Which, obviously, he was. 

Maybe Ryan should get up and pretend he slept on the couch. Say that he and Brendon just switched for the night. If Brendon really was drunk—which he was without a doubt, that was the only explanation—he probably wouldn’t notice.

That was it; that was the plan. Get away before Brendon woke up. 

Ryan started to move—despite never wanting to leave the warmth Brendon’s embrace provided—and pulled himself away from Brendon’s chest. 

Brendon shifted again, this time pulling the arm away from Ryan entirely and towards himself. Ryan froze, realizing his mistake in waking Brendon up. Brendon groaned, moving around beneath the covers, away from Ryan. 

Ryan wished he didn’t miss the warmth of Brendon’s body as much as he did.

The bed creaked as Brendon rolled over onto his back and wiped at his eyes, mumbling something to himself that Ryan couldn’t understand. Ryan listened to him let out a soft grunt. 

Drunk. He was drunk. 

Ryan wished he could roll over and look at Brendon—drunk or not—and see what type of bedhead he had. How his black hair stuck up wrong, how it clumped over his eyes or was parted incorrectly. Wished he could see the sleep in Brendon’s eyes; the bags that hung beneath them. What his smile would look like tinted by exhaustion. If he would smile at Ryan. Ryan wished he could roll over and see a messy, thrown together Brendon with a sleepy smile laying in bed next to him. 

Ryan craved it, yearned it. God, he wanted to see that Brendon. 

But he stayed frozen, arms pressed to his chest and pretended to be asleep. 

The bed dipped again and he knew Brendon was facing his back. Brendon was laying in bed, staring at his back. They were laying in bed together, only a few inches separating them, and Brendon was staring at him. 

That was not drunk behavior. A drunk man would have already said something when he noticed another man in his bed. Would have cussed and spat at Ryan. Yelled at him to leave. If a drunk man found himself sleeping with another man in his bed, he wouldn’t be quiet. 

But Brendon lay there in silence, staring at Ryan’s back. Maybe he was in shock.

There was a long while where nothing was said, no noise was made, and Ryan wondered if he should just roll over and face Brendon. Element of surprise. See the way his black eyes widened. If he rolled over, how close would they be? Face to face. Ryan might be able to kiss him so close. 

No. No, he wouldn’t. 

What was the worst that could happen if he turned over? Brendon was the one that crawled into bed with him. Brendon was the one that had things to answer for. Why was Ryan the one that was so nervous?

“ _Fuck_ ,” he heard Brendon breathe. 

That was not a drunk man’s voice. That was the voice of a man who was all too sober.

“Ryan?” Brendon whispered after a moment and it seemed as though he didn’t actually want Ryan to hear. So Ryan pretended he didn’t. Stayed completely still and did his best to keep his breathing slow and even. Tried to figure things out in his head. Was Brendon drunk? He didn’t sound it. He sounded like he wanted to be drunk but wasn’t. 

Ryan wished _he_ was drunk. He could laugh at this if he were drunk. Wished he and Brendon were both tinted with alcohol and they could laugh and brush it off and maybe they could kiss and it wouldn’t mean anything. No. Drunk men didn’t kiss each other. _Men_ didn’t kiss each other. 

What the hell was going on with his mind? First he loved a girl—a wonderful girl—who ended up breaking his heart and cheating on him with his best friend. But he couldn’t blame her. She thought he was dead. Now he was in love with a war buddy. A male war buddy. 

Ryan was in love with a man. A _man_. What the hell was wrong with his head?

Brendon didn’t try to wake him again. 

There was a long pause where Ryan knew Brendon was staring at his back and he could almost feel the piercing gaze on him, burning through his t-shirt. He was in his t-shirt and briefs. He was in his underwear. He was in his goddamn underwear in bed with Brendon Urie and Brendon’s body had been right up against him. God, he felt exposed. 

The bed creaked again as Brendon sat up, turned, and swung his legs over the side. He sat in a deafening quiet and Ryan held his breath. It sounded like Brendon cursed again and ran a hand over his face. Then the bed raised as Brendon stood and exited the room. 

The door clicked shut behind him. 

Ryan rolled over to stare at the ceiling. His heart was pounding and the place beside him in bed was warm with someone else’s heat but the it somehow managed to feel too cold with the newfound emptiness. Emptiness for a place that should have never been filled. Far too cold.

Ryan couldn’t tell what color the ceiling he stared at was in the dark but he knew it wasn’t blue and he wished it was. Wished there were stars on Brendon’s ceiling. If one person in the world was smart enough—good enough; perfect enough—to have stars on their ceiling it would be Brendon Urie. But the ceiling was blank. And Ryan was forced to wonder why the world was so bland. 

Brendon slept in bed with him. And Ryan was in love with him. 

He was in love with a man. With Brendon Urie.

This was such a fucking disaster. 

Ryan shook his head and sat up in Brendon’s bed, leaning against the headboard and running a hand over his face. Fate was having quite the laugh right about now. 

Brendon’s mattress wasn’t as stiff as Ryan’s in Las Vegas, Nevada. The mattress in Clearfield, Utah was soft and sunk beneath his weight. Sank beneath both Brendon’s and Ryan’s. It fit them both perfectly. 

Ryan loved him. 

There was still sweat on his face and he wiped at it, running a hand back through his hair to keep it out of his eyes. He needed a hair cut. His hair—not dark enough to be chestnut and not red enough to be auburn; just as wrong and unnameable as the rest of him—was getting a little too curly for his liking. It sat behind his ears and curled around his earlobes and the back of his neck. A few more months and he could probably tie it off in a bun. 

Like Z’s when Ryan told her he loved her for the first time.

He could feel the dampness on the back of his spine and down the front of his chest from sweat. He frowned, tugged the collar of his shirt out and fanned himself with it. He needed to take a shower. He smelled something awful. 

As if on cue, through the walls, he heard the tell-tale sign of water running. Brendon must be taking a shower. Brendon slept with Ryan in his bed and the moment he woke up he fled to clean himself. 

What? Did sleeping with Ryan make him feel that dirty?

Ryan shook his head, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. No. Sometimes people just needed to take showers. But what had Brendon thought about sleeping with him?

Ryan doubted it would be easy to forget the way it felt to have Brendon Urie pressed against him. He blinked rapidly and turned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Shuffled along the carpet, feeling it beneath his bare feet, and stretched, cracking his back. 

The carpet was nicer than the one in Nevada. Not ratty and coarse. It was smooth and his feet sunk in it just enough to be comfortable. Brendon had a good bedroom and a good bed and a good carpet. It was a good house. 

Ryan’s body felt divine. 

Despite the sweat and the absolute bewilderment banging around in his skull, his physical form had never felt better. That was probably the first decent sleep he’d had in months. Maybe in three years. 

He smiled a little to himself. Because how could he not, when his body felt this serene?

He traveled from the bedroom out into the living room; took into account the apartment that Brendon lived in. Brendon and he, actually. Ryan lived there, didn’t he? Technically. That was odd. He needed to talk to Brendon about that. How long was he allowed to stay? But no—No. Brendon had told him not to mention it again. He was welcome for however long he wanted to stay. 

Forever then. Because he certainly wasn’t willing to leave. 

Las Vegas, Nevada was shit. Clearfield, Utah was a rather nice town. Ryan was more than willing to stay for a while. 

He took into account the couch that Brendon had been sleeping on for the past few nights, completely neat and tidy. A blanket folded on the arm. A pillow on top of it. Because no one had slept on it. Because Brendon had slept with him. 

Brendon Urie slept in bed with Ryan Ross and his skin was on fire and he had never felt better in his entire life and he was in love. 

Ryan Ross was in love. 

He listened to the shower running and held his breath. _One. Two. Three._ Let it out through his mouth in a quivering exhale.

He turned and walked from the living room to the kitchen. If he could sing a song, what song would it be? He felt like humming a tune. ‘Cheerful Little Earful’ perhaps. But he kept his lips sealed and instead went to Brendon’s cabinet to get down two mugs. 

He wanted coffee and he figured Brendon would want some too. Something to clear his head. Brendon liked coffee and besides, Ryan owed him for paying the other day. Ryan owed him a hell of a lot. Owed Brendon so much. Owed Brendon his life. 

Should he ask if it was alright to make some? Walk over to the bathroom and peek his head in on Brendon taking a shower and ask if it was alright for him to make coffee? They had slept together, after all, shouldn’t be a breach of privacy. Except Brendon wasn’t naked when they’d slept together. He was assumingly naked in the shower. No one showered with their clothes on. So Ryan probably shouldn’t peek his head in. 

Perhaps, he should go ahead and do as he pleased. Not bother a naked, dripping wet Brendon Urie, and simply make coffee in peace. He figured Brendon would like a warm cup and set to work, resisting the urge to wander to the restroom. Besides, Brendon had told him to make himself at home. Brendon had given him a key. Where was that key anyway? 

Ryan felt around his neck. It was gone. He must have set it down somewhere before he went to bed. He would ask Brendon to help him look for it when he got out of the shower. 

He listened to the shower running as he made coffee. Wondered if Brendon usually sang in the shower. Ryan listened keenly to see if he did but there was silence. Lonely, songless silence as the water thundered in the bathroom. 

Brendon took a long shower. Long and sorrowful and songless.

By the time Ryan finally heard the water turn off, he had successfully poured both Brendon and himself each a cup of coffee and was in search of where Brendon kept the sugar. He knew Brendon liked sugar and was craving to find him some before the shower ended. 

That would probably make Brendon giddy, getting out of a shower and already having a sugar-filled coffee cup ready for him. He’d love it. Go crazy for a nice cup of sugar and a pinch of coffee. 

The shower turned off and Ryan listened to the sound of Brendon clambering out. A shuffling of feet. A clatter. A low curse through the thin walls.

Brendon didn’t seem to be having a good morning. 

Ryan wiped his sweating palms on his briefs. He should have gotten dressed. Why hadn’t he gotten dressed? He was a mess. He should have gotten dressed. 

Brendon Urie must have thought the same thing as he exited the bathroom in a towel.

His black hair hung down in wet strips, glued to his forehead and over his dark eyes. Water dripped down from the strands to his neck, shoulders, and onto his bare torso. He looked similar to how he had that day at the creek, drops of water dotting over his tan skin. There were freckles on his shoulders and his nose. Veins danced up his arms which Ryan couldn’t help but memorize. But there was a difference to the creek. No dog tag. Brendon’s dog tag was gone. 

He was just a man. Brendon Urie was a normal man, standing in the doorway of his bathroom in his apartment in Clearfield, Utah—much different than Ryan’s in Las Vegas, Nevada—with a towel that was hung on his hips far too low for comfort. 

Ryan was forced to blink several long times to clear his head. That man slept with him in a bed. That man in a towel dotted with water droplets without a dog tag. That man, Brendon Urie. He slept with Ryan. 

Brendon was glistening in the dim light of the apartment. None of the lights were on but the sun poured in through the one window in his hall and that was enough to light the entire house in a faded glow so it hit Brendon in a way that made him shine. 

He caught Ryan’s whiskey eyes and stiffened, one of his hands instinctively moving to his towel to hold it tighter against him. There was a pause and Ryan didn’t know if he was expected to speak first or not. 

“Morning,” he said because silence was not something he could afford. Brendon could probably hear his heartbeat across the room. 

“Morning…” Brendon licked his lips and glanced to the side. His profile and the sharp curve of his jaw caught the light. He was beautiful. Ryan thought he was beautiful. “How long have you been up?”

Was Brendon not going to mention that they’d slept together and when he woke up, he immediately ran off to shower? Was he not going to mention it at all or was Ryan supposed to bring the topic up? Ryan shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “Not all that long. Here, I made you coffee. Couldn’t find where you keep the sugar though.”

“There’s a jar next to the toaster,” Brendon said back with no emotion in his tone. He was staring at Ryan warily, eyes flitting over his face as if trying to gauge what he was about to say next. “You… made me coffee?”

Ryan said as he turned to see the jar in question, “Yeah, I did. C’mon.” 

“You—” Brendon’s dark eyes were big and he shook his head gently before he continued, “Thanks. Let me just get dressed first.”

Ryan almost protested. Nearly. But he figured it was better not to. That would have been too obvious. Asking Brendon to sit with him and smoke in nothing but a towel. That wouldn’t accomplish anything. Other than making Brendon feel half as stripped down as Ryan did. 

Ryan nodded his head to signal it was alright and turned to find the sugar Brendon spoke of. Toyed with the jar and spooned several clumps of sugar into Brendon’s coffee before pausing and deciding to dump it into his own cup as well. 

The morning was made for new things. 

New things like sleeping with a man he was in love with in a bed that wasn’t his in a house that he wasn’t supposed to be in and coffee with sugar. 

His hands were shaking as he stirred the coffee around with a spoon. They were still shaking when Brendon re-entered from the bedroom. His bedroom. Or—Well, the line was slightly blurred. Brendon’s bedroom that Ryan slept in. Now that they both slept in. Ryan wasn’t really sure whose bedroom it was actually. 

Brendon entered from the ownership-still-undecided bedroom wearing his trousers that went just up to his belly button with his belt undone, his seersucker shirt balled up in one hand and his cigarette lit and hanging out of his mouth. He flashed Ryan a half-smile as he came out of the room, throwing his shirt onto the couch and taking to smoking his cigarette with a hand, using the other to try and do up his belt. 

Ryan wished he’d stop smoking.

Brendon’s dog tag was slung back around his neck, plainly obvious to see on his bare chest. Brendon Urie from the day by the creek. Pants on, shirt off, glistening with water and a dog tag hanging over the flat planes of a tanned stomach. He was beautiful. He was exquisite and beautiful and Ryan was in love with him. Miserably in love with him.

“Hey again,” Brendon said as he slid into his barstool, across from Ryan, blowing a puff of smoke into the air as he took the coffee cup back into his hands.

That was the one difference. Brendon hadn’t been smoking at the creek. He was nervous. Nervous as he sat across Ryan and drank coffee at the bar shirtless. Nervous the morning after they’d slept in bed together. Ryan didn’t blame him. He was nervous too. Nervous he had something to mess up.

“Hi,” Ryan returned, watching Brendon sit there. He wondered if he should just say it outright. Just ask Brendon Urie head on why Ryan had woken up with his arms around him. But Brendon wasn’t saying anything and Ryan wasn’t eager to make his attraction known. 

A man would be shot in war if he was found out for being a fag. 

Not that Ryan _was_ a fag. He wasn’t. He was just… Brendon was… Brendon was Brendon and Ryan was in love with him. He wasn’t gay. And neither was Brendon. 

Brendon wasn’t gay. Brendon was an army man. Brendon would want to kill him.

He needed to get rid of this feeling. Fast.

Needed to figure out a way to will this feeling in his gut and his chest away. This was wrong. Loving Brendon was wrong and Ryan shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. 

But then Brendon looked up at him with those evil, black eyes of his. Smiled that smile with those full lips—those too feminine features, that was why Ryan felt this way—at Ryan over the rim of a coffee cup, a steaming cigarette in his other hand. One of his eyes squinted more than the other when he smiled at Ryan and Ryan’s heart did a flip in his chest and he had never been surer of anything. 

Never been so sure he was in love with someone before. 

“Thanks,” Brendon said and smoked. “For the coffee.”

“Yeah,” Ryan mumbled, keeping his eyes anywhere other than the man across from him. “You’re welcome.” 

Ryan stood at the counter and sipped at his coffee. It wasn’t so good. Brendon shouldn’t have thanked him for it. 

“So,” he asked casually, hoping to shoehorn it into the conversation as effortlessly and as undetectable as possible without letting Brendon know he wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss Brendon Urie. No, he didn’t. _No_ , he _didn’t_. He didn’t want to—Ryan shook his head. “How was singing last night?”

“It was… good,” Brendon answered reluctantly. There was a beat or two as Ryan drank his coffee and Brendon smoked at the counter. He hadn’t opened the window up—maybe he’d forgotten to—and the smoke was trapped in the kitchen with them. Brendon was staring at him curiously—worriedly, if Ryan was being honest—black eyes darting all over his face. “How was Clearfield?”

Ryan sort of liked how the sugar tasted. Brendon was right about the sweetness. “It’s a real nice place, Bren.”

Brendon nodded. He looked down into his coffee. The whole interaction was wrong, stilted and slow. They were missing their cues. “I like it.”

“I do too.” Ryan loved Clearfield. He loved Brendon’s apartment in Clearfield, Utah and he loved the tiny toy store and the coffee shop and he loved Brendon. 

“See any job offers or…?” Brendon asked, drowning out the very end of his sentence by taking a sip of his coffee.

“Didn’t look,” Ryan answered honestly. He wanted to shout out ‘line!’ because surely this was scripted and he just didn’t have the cue-cards. 

“What’d you do?” Brendon asked and he didn’t sound upset that Ryan hadn’t looked for jobs. Just curious what else he had done with his time. 

Ryan licked coffee off his lips. “Went to a toy store.”

Brendon smiled that smile at him and Ryan loved him. “You get a teddy bear, Ry?”

“No.” Ryan feigned a chuckle, scraping a finger on the counter. “Pack of soldiers.”

Brendon gave him an odd look. “Toy soldiers?”

“They’re next to the bed.” That was Brendon’s cue to say ‘the bed we both slept in last night? Ah yes, of course, I must have missed them when I ran away to shower so I could wash you off me.’

Brendon glanced up at him and it was blatantly plain in his eyes that he knew what was expected of him. Ryan watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed. Brendon looked at the table, took in a breath, and his eyes went back up to Ryan. 

He was going to ask. He was going to tell Ryan why he slept with him. Ryan shifted in anticipation but drank his coffee slowly, hoping that from the waist up he looked composed. The sweat down his shirt probably didn’t give off that aura. 

Brendon didn’t make eye contact. “Can I ask you a question?”

_What was it like to sleep with me? What do you think about sex? Have you ever kissed a man before? Have you ever loved one? Do you really think fags should be shot? If you had the chance, would you kiss me? Can I kiss you?_

Ryan blinked. “Yeah. Of course, you can, Bren. Always.”

“How long did you date that girl for?” Brendon asked, finally fixing his gaze on Ryan. “Elizabeth?”

Ryan couldn’t keep the shock from his features, eyes going big. That was not at _all_ what he had been expecting. Not in the slightest. “Oh. Uhm. I don’t… know exactly. Started when we were eighteen.”

“That’s young,” Brendon echoed quietly. “You ever think that’s too young?”

“To date a girl?” Ryan asked, frowning. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Right. Right.”

“Why?” Ryan tilted his head. He probably shouldn’t ask. “When did you first date a girl?”

Brendon blinked a few times. There was something off about his look. “I’ll be honest with you, Ryan, I’ve never really dated one.”

Ryan felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Brendon Urie had never dated a girl? Why? How? It wasn’t like he didn’t have the options. How picky did he have to be? Every girl in the world was probably enamored with Brendon Urie. Hell, even Ryan had it bad for him and he was a man. Brendon Urie was damn irresistible. 

“I've been with… girls, sure. Lots of times but I’ve never…” Brendon shook his head. He traced the rim of his coffee cup with one finger and held his cigarette between two others. He didn’t have his rings on. Had he had them on when he slept with Ryan? “I never dated just one person. Never. Did you like it?”

“Dating Z?” Ryan clarified, his head still whirling, and Brendon nodded. “Oh, well yeah. I figure. I liked her so—”

“Did you love her?”

Ryan wondered why Brendon had that tone of voice. Why he was looking at Ryan like he was fearful. “Of course I did.”

“When’d you…” Brendon waved a hand around and smoke followed the cigarette between his fingers. “When’d you know you loved her? How did you know?”

Ryan was so very confused. Why was Brendon asking him these things? Why should they matter in the slightest? “I just did. We were eighteen and I just started living alone and-and I knew. She was easy to love.”

“Easy to love,” Brendon repeated quietly. He nodded to himself and sucked on his cigarette for a moment. Was he shivering? It wasn’t even cold. “Huh.” 

“Why do you ask?” Ryan prompted, furrowing his brow. 

Brendon shrugged, not looking up at him. “No reason exactly. I’m just—” He broke off in a forced laugh. “Been having trouble lately.”

Ryan nearly choked. “L-love trouble? You’re having… girl issues?” 

“Kinda,” Brendon answered and Ryan was glad Brendon wasn’t looking at him to see the destroyed expression that was steadily coming over his face. “I’ve been messing around with this girl; it’s nothing serious. But—I sorta think she’s in love with me.”

 _Well, of course she is_ , Ryan thought. _It’s_ you. _She’d be insane not to be._

“But I’m real good friends with her,” Brendon continued and he was still looking into his coffee cup and Ryan was still thankful. He was trying to piece his mind back together. “And I don’t want her to get the wrong idea, y’know? But I think… I think I’ve gone a tad too far.”

Brendon finally looked up at Ryan and it was obvious that he was asking for advice. He was asking Ryan for advice with a girl. Ryan’s advice was to ditch the girl. _Ditch the girl, please. I’m here._ He tried to keep his voice steady. “Well, do you love her?” 

Brendon swallowed; chewed on his bottom lip. “See… I don’t know. What’s the definition of love? How do you know you love someone?”

There Brendon Urie was, asking Ryan for love advice while sitting at his bar shirtless with a dog tag around his neck, black eyes evil and features ever so feminine. 

“Trust me,” Ryan said. He hoped he didn’t sound as bitter as he felt. “You’ll know if you love someone.”

Brendon puckered his lips to a frown and nodded. He seemed to be biting his tongue. There was a silence. And then, suddenly, Brendon spoke again. Not at all what Ryan wanted to hear though. “What time is it?”

He wasn’t going to mention it. Brendon wasn’t going to acknowledge that he slept with Ryan. He was going to pretend it didn’t happen. He was ashamed of it. Of Ryan. 

Ryan’s heart was cracking. It was falling apart. And there he was thinking it couldn’t get any more broken. He always seemed to be wrong these days, didn’t he? 

Ryan answered stiffly, “Late.”

“I should probably go sing,” Brendon said, not making eye contact with Ryan again and smoking. “If it really is late.” 

He was so ashamed. Brendon was so ashamed of sleeping with him. He wasn’t drunk. He had done it on purpose, hadn’t he? Why? It didn’t matter. He was ashamed of it. Ryan was ashamed for loving him. “Okay.”

Brendon stood from the stool. His voice was gentle when he spoke. “Thank you for the coffee, Ryan.”

That was the closest to an ‘I love you’ Ryan would ever get from him. Ryan dipped his head but didn’t say ‘you’re welcome.’ The coffee wasn’t that good. Brendon had nothing to thank him for. 

When Brendon turned to walk away, he had deep dimples in his back and his spine moved beneath his skin. He had good posture, standing up straight with his shoulders back. Ryan needed to learn how to stand up straighter. Brendon looked good when he walked. Looked sleek and clean as he exited back into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. 

And when Brendon entered back into the room in a sweater that he’d rolled up to his elbows, still smoking his cigarette, his dog tag hanging out of the shirt, he looked beautiful. Veins that traced up his arms. Black hair and evil eyes and full lips. Looked divine when he smiled at Ryan with shiny teeth and feminine features. God-made when he tucked the chain back into his shirt with long fingers to hide it from the real world. He wasn’t wearing his rings. No more war on him. 

Brendon Urie was a normal man and Ryan was a fool for loving him. 

He took a final sip of his coffee, set it down and smiled. Looked up at Ryan, let out a breath, and said, voice low, “I’ll see you later, Ryan.”

That was a sad goodbye. He flashed a sad smile as he walked to the door to sing at a bar Ryan wasn’t allowed to go to. A bar Brendon didn’t want him at. 

He saluted Ryan like a toy soldier. 

“And thanks for the advice,” Brendon said. “It means a lot to me.”

When his evil, black eyes met Ryan’s whiskey ones he was beautiful and it was all too clear to Ryan that the colors just didn’t match right. Whiskey and black? They clashed. 

Brendon looked sleek and clean and gorgeous and exquisite and divine and God-made as he stood in the doorway.

And, above all else, he looked like someone who could never love Ryan Ross. 

Brendon stared at him. Blinked carefully. He took in a long, sharp inhale. Then he shut his mouth and licked his lips. Appeared as though he was about to say something he was going to regret. 

“Anytime, Bren. I’m here all week,” Ryan grunted, trying to keep the mood light. It was so dark. 

Brendon put one foot out the door. He was almost fully out when he said, barely audible across the room, “ _You_ mean a lot to me, Ryan, I hope you know that.”

Ryan started to put the coffee cups up before he stopped dead. His brain seemed to finally catch up with the rest of him and he stared straight ahead with wide eyes.

 _Wait_ , he thought, _did I hear that right?_

“You too, Bren,” Ryan said, snapping his head to the front door. _In fact, I’m in love with you. And I know it for sure now._

But the door was wedged shut and there was no one to hear what Ryan had said. 

Brendon was long gone but his words still rang in Ryan’s ears. 

There was someone else in the world that cared about him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long boi, I'm sorry. I don't know why they're so long! I actually had to cut this one in half. But my outline is still on track and I am so flipping excited to write these next two chapters. Thank you for reading!


	24. So Straight a Soldier

Ryan knew. Ryan definitely knew. 

Brendon was almost positive he did. What with the way that Ryan had been staring at him across the kitchen bar when they were back at the apartment, a coffee cup in one hand, hardly ever removing Brendon from his whiskey gaze, eyebrows slightly arched up, and his mouth barely parted as if ready to pose the question. Brendon had been able to see it in those shatter-me whiskey eyes. He so knew. 

Ryan Ross so knew Brendon slept with him and Dallon Weekes was so in love with him and Brendon Urie was so, _so_ immensely screwed. 

Why did things have to be this way? Why couldn't Brendon have a normal life? One where he was a simple soldier who came back from France to all his friends and lived that sweet, normal, apple-pie life? Why did he have to be a fag, first of all? Second, why did his best friend have to be one too and be in love with him? And third, why did Brendon have to go and sleep with Ryan Ross? What the hell was wrong with him? He needed to learn how to think. 

When Brendon had first woken up that morning to find a sleeping Ryan Ross in bed beside him, he had prayed Ryan would stay asleep. Mostly because he didn't know what he would say when Ryan realized Brendon had slept with him. Ryan would probably roll over, take one look at him, and ask something along the lines of 'what are you doing here?' and Brendon really didn't have an answer to that. 'Because you asked me to stay.' But that really wasn't good enough. 'Because you asked me to stay' was not enough reason for a man to sleep with another man. 

Ryan had been out of it. So out of it. Drunk on sleep and fear. Drunk on nightmares. He probably hadn't even meant to ask Brendon to stay. He probably thought Brendon was Z or something of that sort. 

But he had said 'Bren.' Ryan had said, ' _Bren_? Please stay.' And Brendon had. 

But he couldn't know for sure how Ryan would react. If he would even remember the night before. So he had laid awake and stared at the ceiling for a moment; sent up a wish to the heavens. Turned over to stare at Ryan’s back, most covered by blankets. He had looked so peaceful. Completely still with blankets pooled around his lean form, draped over where his back dipped into his thin waist. Brendon had simply laid there, thinking. Pondering. Wondering what he'd done to make God mad enough to screw him over this bad. 

He had prayed that he would be able to make a quick escape and Ryan wouldn’t be able to ask him anything about the interaction. If Ryan stayed asleep while Brendon made a break for it, he might ever know it happened at all. That would be the dream. 

If Ryan never knew Brendon had slept with him at all. If Ryan didn't know that Brendon had held him in bed and didn’t sleep for half of the night. Brendon didn't want Ryan to know that he had laid awake half the night, holding Ryan in his arms and just listened to the other man's shaky breathing until it evened out. Only when it had sounded calm had Brendon been able to fall into a fitful sleep. That was only the last portion of the night. Well, it wasn’t really night anymore. Brendon was impressed that Ryan and he had been able to sleep so long. The two of them slept until late afternoon. 

Well, Ryan slept until late afternoon; Brendon barely slept at all, spending a vast majority of his night finding new ways to curl his arms around Ryan Ross. They fit so well together. Brendon had spent the night pulling Ryan closer towards his chest, pushing him away carefully when he had a moment of sanity. Pulling him back again when his sanity left him once again.

Brendon's sanity never stayed very long. 

He didn’t want Ryan to know that he had spooned him. That he had held Ryan to his chest and memorized the rhythm Ryan’s heart beat to and the pacing of his breathing. The way Ryan’s eyes danced beneath his eyelids; flickering, fluttering. Didn’t want Ryan to know that Brendon had held him through sobs and whimpers. That at one point during the night, after Ryan had finally drifted off to sleep, face tucked into Brendon’s shirt, his hands balled into the fabric, he had whined in his sleep. It had been such a distraught sound; such a destroyed noise. And the only thing Brendon had thought to do was press his mouth to Ryan’s hair and hold it there. 

It hadn’t been a kiss. Not really. It had been the pressure of Brendon’s mouth on the top of Ryan’s head while Ryan slept tucked against him. It hadn't been a kiss. And it hadn't been weird. And it certainly hadn't meant anything. 

But then Brendon had stayed there. Hadn’t taken his mouth away. Kept his nose and his lips in Ryan’s hair and held him in the darkness of his bedroom. Breathed him in like Ryan was a more important source than air. Like Ryan was the only drug that mattered, more of a toxin than nicotine could ever be. It didn't matter so much, though. Brendon needed the hit. 

He didn’t ever want Ryan to know that. Not ever.

Although, judging by the way Ryan had been looking at him across the bar, he did know. Knew that Brendon slept with him. Knew that Brendon had held them flush together in his bed in the dark. Knew that Brendon had been tracking his heart beat, his breathing, the way his eyes danced. Ryan definitely knew that Brendon breathed him in like a drug in the dark. 

And the only thing Brendon could think to do was run. 

Run like such a coward. He’d gotten out of there the first chance that arose. It was selfish, he knew that. And it was moronic and he was more of a fool than Jon Walker took him for. Worst of all, he was a liar. Brendon Urie was such a goddamn liar. 

He wished he could figure out a way to come clean. A way to tell Ryan, 'Hi. I'm gay. And you? Well, you're my best friend Ryan. And I think, actually, that I'm falling in love with you. Is that bad?' 

Yes. Yes, it was so very bad. Brendon was falling in love with Ryan Ross. Well and truly, he was; no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. He wasn't _in love_ with Ryan Ross. Not yet, thank God. He was simply... getting there. There was still time for him to nip the attraction in the bud. He could figure out how to do that. He could figure out how to stop falling in love with Ryan Ross. Somehow. 

It was four in the afternoon on a weekday, and Brendon didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. He hadn't had any plans after he ran out on Ryan. Just that he knew he had to get away. And he had. He'd sprinted all the way down the street and disappeared into the small town. He didn’t have to be at The Church until at least seven thirty that night. And he didn't want to go over to Dallon’s. So all he had thought to do was walk around leisurely, no set destination in mind. 

Usually, he would have gone to see Dallon. But he didn't want to do that. Couldn't do that. Didn’t want to have to look Dallon in the eyes, knowing he didn’t love him the way he was supposed to. He was supposed to, wasn't he? Dallon acted like he was. It was Brendon's fault. He was supposed to love Dallon Weekes and he didn't. Instead, he was falling in love with Ryan Ross. His brain was fucked. 

And he couldn’t get Eric’s stupid voice out of his head. _Oh, Dally. He’s the one screwing you and doesn’t even know you’re in love with—_

Brendon wasn’t in love with Ryan Ross. He really wasn’t. He just—he appreciated the way Ryan breathed and the way his eyes danced beneath his eyelids and how he held onto Brendon’s shirt in his sleep. Appreciated the way Ryan smiled nervously like he didn't want anyone to see and the way he could turn everything upbeat to blues. He didn’t love Ryan. He appreciated Ryan. That was all.

Besides, it wasn’t as though he _could_ love Ryan anyway. It wasn't an option. Brendon was not about to be another dumbass fag that fell for a heterosexual army man. Had there been any before? He could use some life experience. Some advice. Because he really didn’t know what he was doing. He needed someone to tell him how to stop falling in love. Was it mental? Or was there perhaps some sort of medicine he could take? Men got medicine if they were found out to be a fag. A set of pills to fix your brain—get it back on women—or a bullet through the head. Either did the trick. Either way, you stopped liking dick.

Brendon needed a pill or a bullet. There wasn't an in between. 

He didn’t want to go over to Dallon’s. Brendon had taken a shower the moment he'd gotten out of bed—tried to get his body back in order—but he bet that Dallon would be able to _smell_ Ryan on him. Smell the salt of the tears Ryan had shed or the whimpers of Brendon's name in the night or the heat that Ryan had provided. Be able to smell the so-called ‘former love’ that was so obvious to everyone but Brendon himself. Eric was wrong. Eric Ronick was wrong. There was no former love. And if there was, it wasn’t Ryan Ross. 

Dallon would probably be wondering why he hadn’t come over. Brendon usually came over for dinner. There hadn’t been a day in the last two weeks where he hadn’t spent at least a portion of the afternoon with Dallon. Dallon would know something was off-kilter when Brendon didn't show. 

What was Brendon supposed to say when Dallon asked why he hadn’t come over? ‘Oh sorry yeah, I lost track of time. Silly me. I was a little distracted with Ryan Ross in my arms. You know how it is.’ 

Brendon was in so deep. He was in so goddamn deep and he didn’t know how he was supposed to pull himself out of this pit he’d crawled himself into. Seemed like he just kept digging further. Soon enough, he’d be buried. 

What if Dallon tried to call the house and Ryan picked up? That might be a disaster. Dallon might ask, ‘Hey, is Brendon there’ and Ryan would say, ‘No; he’s been gone for about an hour or so now’ and Dallon would ask, ‘Where’s he gone?’ and Ryan would say, ‘To sing?’ because he didn’t know for sure because Brendon really hadn’t clarified. 

He’d just ran. Like every selfish, despicable, cowardice faggot in the world that realized they were falling in love with a heterosexual army man. Now Brendon walked around in Clearfield with no set destination in mind. 

He walked along the asphalt of the small town in Utah with his hands shoved into his trouser pockets—trousers he hadn’t even had cleaned since he slept with Ryan in bed; he could feel how dirty they were, how covered with Ryan's smell—and a cigarette shoved in the corner of his mouth. He needed to stop smoking so much; it was becoming a too frequent, nasty habit. The smoke was starting to taste better than the air did. 

He walked along and tried to tell himself that he wasn’t falling in love. Even though he was. He wished it was as easy to lie to himself as it was to lie to Ryan. 

He trotted around the same block twice and, unsurprisingly, nothing had changed. He wondered how long it would be before Dallon called to check up on him. How long until Dallon decided Brendon was supposed to be around, kissing him and holding his hand. What if he Dallon worried? The one day in two weeks Brendon hadn’t come over. 

Granted, it was the day after Dallon kissed him in public. A public place, Dallon had kissed him in. And granted again, sure, it was a gay club and it was sort of made for gays to kiss but that didn’t excuse the fact that Jon Walker hadn’t been ten feet away and Eric had been given all too wonderful a perch from the stage to witness the little display.

Eric probably got a real kick out of it. He would say something. Definitely, he would. When Brendon finally made it to The Church for singing, Eric would say something about the kiss. About Dallon and Brendon's blossoming romance. 'What about Ryan?' he might ask. And Brendon? Well, Brendon might punch him in the face. 

He snuck a glance through the store window at the clock that hung on the wall. It was five thirty. Brendon had been walking around Clearfield aimlessly with the same thoughts rattling around in his head for over two and a half hours. The same, stupid thoughts.

_Ryan Ross knows I slept with him. Dallon Weekes is in love with me. Eric Ronick thinks Dallon Weekes wants to screw me. He probably does. He definitely does, actually, and I definitely don’t want to do that. I want my best friend not to kiss me in closets anymore. I think I’m going to break my best friend’s heart._

_And I think I’m in love with Ryan Ross._

He took a sharp drag from his cigarette so suddenly that he ended up coughing out a cloud of grey. It burned back up his throat and his eyes watered. He needed to stop smoking. He was going to kill himself with some damn gasper. 

Brendon—before he could convince himself otherwise again—threw the cigarette at the ground and stomped it out with his oxfords. 

It fizzled red and the ashes stained the pavement of the sidewalk. He stared down at them. Wished he could see some type of answer in the ruined butt of his cigarette. Of course, it gave him nothing but ash and he scowled. 

He only managed to walk about a quarter of a mile before his lungs itched and his fingers twitched and he lit a new one. Held it to his mouth and considered choking himself with the smoke on purpose. He smoked continuously as he walked to The Church. Every step and every thought that passed became a better opportunity for the smoke to strangle him. 

He made it to The Church by six and he was glad that it was cold outside because otherwise, he would have worked up quite a sweat from walking so much. 

Ryan had been sweating when they were in bed together. He had a damp mark on the front of his collar and down his spine. Brendon hadn’t minded. Ryan also had tear tracks down his cheeks. Brendon hadn’t minded that either. Ryan Ross was allowed to cry. Just so long as he had someone to wipe away the tears later. Brendon should have stayed around. He could have been that person.

Butch wasn’t supposed to be there until just before eight so there was no one outside the door. Brendon took that as his invitation to knock on it the signature way Dallon did. Two rough clicks of the knuckles. One full handed slap. 

He doubted seriously that anyone would be there. But—much to his surprise and delight—it only took a minute before the door swung open and a very tipsy Jon Walker was peering back at him, brown eyes narrowed to slits. They were glazed over and Brendon was almost entirely certain that Jon Walker was drunk, or at least getting close. He was unshaved and his beard looked uneven on his face, growing more on his chin than the rest of his face. He looked sloppy. 

Although, the moment he saw Brendon he regained at least some composure and grinned that snakelike smile, lopsided and leering. “B. My boy! I knew it.”

Brendon wished it had been anyone else to answer the door. He was desperate enough he would talk to anyone other than Jon Walker. He even would have talked to Nicole and he'd barely said a word to her before. Anyone but Jon Walker. “My name’s Brendon.” 

“No, it’s not.” Jon bobbed his head back towards the inside of the building, pushing the door open to reveal the glass of liquor he had clasped in one hand. Brendon suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. The bar wasn't even open yet. Couldn't Jon wait two more hours before getting ruined? “C'mon in, kid.”

“I’m pretty sure we’re almost the same age,” Brendon muttered to his side as he walked into the bar, hands pressed deep into his pockets and balling into fists. He walked to the trashcan next to the door and threw out his burnt cigarette. He resisted the urge to light a new one, no matter how much he wanted to.

Jon opted to ignore him, sauntering through the large room. 

Brendon liked the top floor a lot better when there wasn’t anyone on it. The first night that Dallon had taken Brendon to The Church, he had despised the top floor. All the sweating bodies and stinking perfume. It had been enough to make him want to vomit right there on the floor. But when there wasn’t anyone there except Jon and he, it was actually quite nice. 

A bar—similar to the one downstairs in The Church—with finely crafted stools and smooth wood. A few tables and chairs towards the side of the room and an open floor to dance on in the center. The jukebox was pressed against the wall. Brendon never liked jukeboxes much. They were neat and all, but he much preferred it live. Much preferred singing it himself. There wasn’t much dancing down in The Church, Brendon thought to himself as he compared the upstairs with what he knew the basement to look like. The Church had mostly sofas and comfortable chairs for homosexuals to lounge across while they watched the singer drone on. 

Brendon wondered why Jon thought fags would be the calm ones when it came to clubbing. 

Not that he didn’t like The Church. If he was actually one of the homos that went there, he would probably like it quite a bit. But as the main singer, Brendon wasn’t exactly allowed the luxuries of a fine sofa. Brendon got to stand on stage every night, flash a smile, and breathe into a microphone. 

He made a mental note to ask Jon for a night off. Maybe a Saturday night and he could go to The Church as a human being. He could sit on one of the nice sofas and Dallon could bring him a drink or two and they could chat about nothing and listen to Nicole hum her heart out. 

She could sing. Jon should let her sing more. Brendon made a mental note that if Jon kept getting drunk, he would let Nicole sing early that night. Just a song or two. If Jon was drunk enough, he wouldn't even notice.

“I figured you’d be coming by early tonight.” Jon’s voice surfaced and he sounded accusatory. Sneering like he’d won a bet no one was in on but himself. 

Brendon followed him through the room to the straight bar where Jon slid into place on one of the stools, placing his glass on the wood. Brendon sat next to him and Jon scowled. Like Brendon’s gay ass would somehow ruin the seats. Brendon folded his arms on top of the bar, asking, “Why would I come by?”

If it hadn't been for the desperation to get away from Ryan Ross and nowhere else to go, Brendon would be at home still. 

“What was it that you said to me a couple of nights ago?” Jon surmised, tapping his chin. “‘Don’t play dumb,’ wasn’t it?”

Brendon glared at him. 

Why did Jon Walker feel the need to make himself so punchable? If Brendon punched him right then—just decided to let it out; didn’t wait another second—what would happen? Most likely Jon would fall off the bar stool and crack his head open. Maybe he’d get knocked out Maybe he’d die. If he didn’t, he would probably punch Brendon back. How hard could Jon Walker punch? Would it leave a mark? Maybe Brendon and Ryan could be a matching pair of bruised boys.

“What’re you talking about?” Brendon didn't even bother to look at Jon, instead focusing his eyes on his arms that were folded over the tabletop. 

“I’m talking about your money,” Jon grunted back and took a swig from his drink. 

Brendon wondered what sort of drink it was. It looked like whiskey. Must have been a bad night for Jon Walker. Brendon could use something to drink. Something to dull his senses. Or actually, that might be a bad idea. He didn’t want to see Dallon if he was drunk. Didn’t know what he might let slip. 

Brendon quirked a brow. “My money?”

Jon rolled his eyes. He must have thought Brendon was an idiot. In a lot of respects, Brendon was. Jon could think whatever he wanted. Chances were it was all true anyway. 

“This is the first night you’re getting paid,” Jon supplied, exasperated. “You know that. That’s why you’re here an hour and a half early. Just begging for your cut of cash. I know how fellas like you work.”

It had been two weeks? That was quick. That felt too fast. That was fourteen days that had flown by before Brendon even realized. How long had Ryan been with him? It was going on, what? Day five? Wow. Ryan had been living with him for nearly a week. Was that a long time? Brendon could never tell with time. 

He shook his head. “I don’t care about the money.”

He did and he didn’t. He _needed_ the money. But that was much different than _caring_ about it. Needing, caring. Two very different ideas. Like Ryan Ross? Brendon cared about Ryan Ross. But he didn’t need him. Did he? No. He’d gone twenty-one years without Ryan Ross. Why would he need him now?

But then again, he had spent every day with the man for three years in France. And now five days with the man in his bed. One night with the both of them. Brendon still wasn’t sure if three years was a long time. Sometimes it had felt like an eternity. A loop of horror he was trapped in. And other times it had felt like a blip. Fleeting moments in France that he would never get back. How did time work again? Nothing seemed to be working correctly for Brendon lately. The earth was spinning in the wrong direction. Someone must have tipped it upside down. 

He repeated, more conviction, “I don’t need the money, Jon. I don’t care.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Brendon before the glazed circles widened. They couldn’t seem to make up their mind on whether they wanted to glare or not. He opened his mouth and let it stay open for a moment. Brendon wondered if his tongue would dry out. Jon was smart enough not to say anything. Brendon sent a peek around the bar to see if Eric was anywhere in the room. It was just him and Jon. The club owner and the gay jazz singer. That was a story. 

He asked, for clarification, “Is Eric around?”

“Eric?” Jon repeated, taken aback. There was a strange inflection to his voice that Brendon couldn't place. “Ronnie’s not due for another half hour.”

“ _Ronnie_?” Brendon repeated distastefully. He made it obvious with his expression that he disapproved of the name when he looked at Jon. “Do you rename all your employees?”

“Of course,” Jon said as though it should have been obvious and Brendon was an idiot for thinking anything else. “You name your pets, don’t you?”

Brendon couldn’t suppress a snarl. He wasn't a pet. He wasn't a thing to be taken care off or catered to. Dallon and Jon Walker needed to realize that. Ryan had never treated him like a pet. Sure, Ryan didn't call Brendon by his full name but that wasn't ownership. Brendon didn't think so. That name was more... it was friendly. It was caring. Ryan cared about him. Ryan needed him. Brendon needed him too.

“What d’you need Ronnie for anyhow?” Jon asked, starting to pick at his nails. They were cleaned and there wasn't dirt beneath a single one. If he kept picking, he'd make them bleed.

“Had a question,” Brendon answered which was the truth. He needed to talk to someone about Ryan Ross and Eric was the one who thought Brendon was in love with him so he needed further insight. What made Eric think Brendon was in love? Was he? He didn’t have a clue. 

Well, he had a _vague_ clue. And that was what was scaring him. A vague idea you were in love with someone was arguably just as bad as actually loving them. He might actually be in love with Ryan Ross. That was a problem. 

“What sort of a question?” Jon asked, peeking up at Brendon while still toying with his pristine nails. 

“One you don’t need to know,” Brendon replied through a small chuckle. He bobbed his head to the glass of liquor that Jon was sipping from. “You got any more of that?”

“Sure I do,” Jon replied but he didn’t stand.

“Think I could have a glass?”

Jon blinked. His nails really were very nice. Clean and sharp. He could probably cut someone with nails like that. Brendon decided then that he didn't want to punch Jon Walker because if he did, Jon would punch him back with those claws and Brendon was actually quite fond of having his eyes in his head. “Sure you could.”

Brendon shifted in his seat. He looked at his own nails. They were cleaned from his shower. No dirt from Normandy caked beneath them. No blood or grime marring his fingerprints. His hands were clean. “What’s the price then?”

“A question.”

Brendon cocked his head in puzzlement and Jon elaborated, “Ask me whatever question you planned to ask Ronnie, and in return, I’ll pour you some whiskey. That’s how bartenders work isn’t it? A beer in exchange for a story?”

“Whiskey isn’t beer and I don’t have a story to tell you,” Brendon retorted. He tried to keep his face as blank as possible. He wasn’t about to tell Jon Walker about his love problems. He wasn’t going to do it. Jon Walker didn't need to know about Dallon Weekes being in love with him and he didn't need to know anything about Ryan Ross. Brendon repeated, “When will Eric be here?”

“Half an hour, like I said.” Jon swirled his drink in its glass as he stood, wandering around the bar to the other side. “Don’t you listen?”

Brendon turned away in his chair to face the bar straight on and Jon who settling into place on the opposite side. Brendon rested his chin in his hands, eyes big and melancholy. “I try to. Doesn't always work the way I want it to.”

“So,” Jon pressed and he too leaned against the bar, pressing his weight into one oddly bent arm as the other refused to let go of his whiskey which he held above the bar like a trophy. From an outside perspective, it must have appeared as though the two were friends ready to have a talk about the good old days. The days before the war and everyone's brother and husband were coming back in a casket. Brendon didn’t have any of those to speak of. None that would prove to be a good enough story to entertain Jon Walker. “What were you going to ask him?”

“I’m not telling you, Jon.” Nothing worth telling. Besides, Jon wouldn’t have a clue what advice to give him anyway. Jon didn't even know Ryan existed and Brendon wasn't about to divulge that information.

Jon pouted and took the final gulp of his alcohol. Some of it slipped out of the corner of his lip and he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. “You’re no fun.” 

“I know,” Brendon answered and tried his best to smile at himself. “It’s a cross I bear.”

“Cross,” Jon repeated slowly as if the word didn’t quite make sense to him. He gave Brendon a funny look. “Do you still go to Church?”

He was definitely drunk. Jon Walker was always drunk. 

“I mean,” Jon went on and tried to take a sip from his empty glass. He pulled it away from his face, surprised his liquor was gone, and tipped it upside down to see if anything would come out. Nothing did. “I know you’re a faggot now—”

“I’ve always been a faggot, Jon,” Brendon answered impassively and he didn’t mind the word so much then. Ryan Ross had said it best. _Sometimes words are just words._ They didn’t have to mean anything. 'Faggot' didn’t mean jackshit. Not when Jon Walker said it while he was drunk. Not when Brendon Urie said it while he was sober. Nothing meant anything. “Even when I went to Church.”

“Oh,” Jon replied in a small voice.

Brendon glowered as his eyes went to Jon on the other side of the table. A man getting drunk—alone—in his own bar. He was sad, wasn’t he? Jon Walker was a sad sack of shit. And surprisingly, Brendon didn’t feel joy based on it. He asked quietly, not unkindly, “Why are you here so early, Jon?”

“It’s my bar,” Jon answered harshly, tipping his head up to look at Brendon and setting his glass down on the wooden table hard enough that Brendon knew it was meant to be a threat. He didn't feel very frightened by the drunkard in front of him. “I’m allowed to be.”

Brendon tilted his own head to the side. 

Jon laughed. He raised his hands in surrender and Brendon was alarmed that he backed down so easily. Jon must have been drunker than Brendon thought if he was willing to give in in just a matter of seconds. Brendon hadn't even said anything. “Okay. Cassie kicked me out for the night.”

“How come?” Brendon supposed if one of them was a drunk storyteller, the other had to be the listener. And Brendon wasn’t drunk. So that must have been him. Jon Walker the drunk and Brendon Urie the sympathizer. He might be able to fill the role well.

“I’m an idiot, that’s why,” Jon shuffled with something beneath the bar and Brendon listened to glass clink as Jon fumbled to pour himself another round. “Just the goddamn truth. I’m an idiot.”

“I won’t disagree.”

Jon laughed again, sharper. It was a similar sort of sound to how a cat cried out when it vomited. “Thanks, B. Means so much.”

“You’re welcome.” Brendon picked at the wood of the counter. He couldn’t find a clock anywhere in the building. How long was half an hour? Eric needed to hurry up. “You been staying here then?”

“It’s just for tonight,” Jon answered. He didn't sound so sure. Brendon almost felt sorry for him. 

“If it's just tonight," Brendon asked. "Why’re you getting drunk?”

“I’m in a bar," Jon snapped. "What the hell else am I supposed to do?”

Brendon snorted and shook his head. Jon goddamn Walker. An idiot, alright. A drunk, straight idiot. Brendon still hated him. But maybe a little less. It was nice to know assholes had the same love problems everyone else did. Maybe not the same that Brendon did, of course. Brendon’s problems were fairly unique. He wished his love life was as simple as a late-night fight with his wife of six years. 

Brendon wished his problems didn't have to do with his homosexual adventures in closets with his best friend and the unearthly temptation of his war buddy, Ryan Ross. Wished he was straight or that Ryan wasn't. Or maybe, simply that he wasn't in love with Ryan Ross. Life would be easier if Ryan wasn't so loveable.

“You’re damn lucky, B,” Jon went on without invitation and his speech was slurred. Brendon hoped he didn't accidentally swallow his tongue. “That you don’t have to worry about a woman. Women are much harder to deal with than men. I mean a man, it’s simple, ain’t it? When you wanna fuck, you fuck. And that’s the end of it. None of this feeling bullshit with a man. No man is gonna yell at you 'cause you drunk one too many. A fella'll crack another one open with you. Fuck, sometimes I wish I was a faggot.”

Brendon shook his head. He smiled despite himself. A sarcastic type of smile because he didn't know what other expression he was supposed to pull. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re right.” Jon took a swig. “My ass is sacred ground.”

Brendon laughed loudly. 

“How do you stand it?” Jon asked abruptly and his face was comically disgusted. “Gotta hurt like hell, something like that.”

“It does.” Brendon smiled and his cheeks were tinted red. If Jon Walker weren't drunk, this conversation would have been going very differently. “But in a good sort of way.”

“Nothing hurts in a good way,” Jon bit back and he was scowling deeply. Truly disturbed. It just made Brendon laugh harder. 

“You’d be surprised.” A lot of things hurt in a good way. Sex, sure. But if love was right, it could hurt in a good way. A lot of things hurt in a good way. Jon Walker just hadn't lived enough yet. Or perhaps Brendon had lived too much.

“That reminds me,” Jon added, gesturing to Brendon with his glass and the liquid spilled over the side barely and dribbled down the cup. Jon didn’t seem to notice when it got on his hand. “I been meaning to ask, how is he?”

Brendon made a face. “How is who?”

“Dally,” Jon prattled on like it was obvious. “In the sack? It’s been driving me crazy since yesterday.”

Brendon sat bolt upright. What the hell was it with these people asking him about his sex life? With Dallon, no less. Who he wasn’t even having sex with. He wasn’t and he didn’t plan to anytime in the near future. 

Jon didn’t even notice Brendon’s shock. Just went on in that drunk fashion—he was wasted, wasn’t he? Well and truly, he was wasted. He was using one hand to keep him upright on the bar. Holy god, what was Brendon meant to do with that? He did not want to be responsible for a blabbering, drunk Jon Walker. Where was Eric? Where was Dallon? No, Brendon didn’t want to see Dallon. He didn’t want Jon to ask Dallon these sorts of questions. And in this state, Jon wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut. 

“He’s a quiet one, Dally,” Jon mumbled, no longer looking at Brendon but into his cup. “But it’s the quiet ones that really got something to hide. Bet he’s weird. Is he weird? Does he ask you stuff you gotta say no to? I bet he does. Not to say that you wouldn't like that. You're a war boy, like I said. I bet you're a rough one. A war boy and a good man together in one bed. How's that work?”

“Why do you wanna know?” Brendon asked and he couldn’t even keep his voice even; the bewilderment was too much. He didn't even fully have time to process what Jon had said. A war boy and a good man. Because those two couldn't be the same thing. Brendon was a war boy. Dallon was a good man. So where did Ryan Ross fit? Jon was wrong. A man could be both. Ryan Ross was both.

“Well you kissed full on the mouth last night, you think I didn’t wonder a few things? Speaking of which—” He pointed an accusing finger at Brendon and it shook in the air. “What the shit was that? You said you weren’t together. You’re a liar, Brendon Urie. ”

“We’re not,” Brendon said. And they weren’t. Together, that was. They were just friends that kissed in closets and at Dallon’s house a few times. Six times, they’d kissed. Six. That was barely any. But to the other part, yes. Brendon was a liar. He was such a liar. Even Jon Walker knew it.

Jon leaned back. A smirk was coming over his face. “Does Dally know that?”

“Dallon knows what we are.” But he didn’t really. Dallon didn’t know and Brendon sure as hell didn’t. What were they? Brendon shook his head and stared Jon square in his glazed over eyes. “Alright. I got my question for you, J-Walk.”

Jon snarled. “That’s not my name—”

“Yes it is,” Brendon cut him off, eyes hard. Daring Jon Walker to argue with him. “Now answer me this; if you’re so eager to hear my stories. What’s the definition of love? Huh? ‘Cause I can’t seem to wrap my head around it.” 

Jon blinked, squinted, and grimaced. He repeated, confused, “The _definition_ of love?”

“Uh huh.” Brendon folded his arms over his chest. He cocked his head to the side, mocking. “What is it?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Jon snapped back, taking a slug from his glass. Brendon was impressed he didn’t even wince when the burning liquid went down his throat. He must have been at it for a while. “I didn’t make up love.”

Wasn’t that the damn truth. Who invented love? Brendon needed to have a word with them. His version of love was malfunctioning, he needed someone who knew how to come repair it. 

Brendon asked, hoping to get any sort of understanding, “How’d you know you loved Cassie before you married her?”

Jon took in a breath, long and slow. He repeated to himself, more quietly, “How _did_ I know I loved Cassie?”

Brendon waited expectantly for Jon Walker’s drunk definition of love but didn’t get to hear it as the door to the Walk of Shame clattered open. Jon and he both turned in surprise to see who was walking into the room. Brendon smiled at the sight. 

None other than Eric Ronick—thank God—came wandering inside, hugging his bulky suit jacket around him his skinny form. His hair was whipped about, unruly and not brushed through. Somehow though, Eric managed the look well. It balanced him out nicely. The jacket that was hung around his shoulders was a bit too large and Brendon wondered if it was really his at all. It was probably another man's. Someone bigger. Was Eric romantically involved? Was he gay? Brendon had never asked. It occurred to him, as he watched Eric walk into the bar wearing a jacket that wasn't his size, that he didn’t know a thing about Eric Ronick. And Eric knew more about Brendon than Brendon even knew about himself. 

Brendon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, tucking his hands beneath his thighs. 

“Ronnie!” Jon shouted—too loud for a room with only three people but neither Eric nor Brendon said anything—and Eric turned his way. The moment he saw Jon, a grin split over his face. Almost as though he was happy to see him. Jon beckoned him over and Eric obliged. “Got a riddle for you.”

“Love a riddle,” Eric said as he trotted to the bar, already smiling too big for a drunk chat as he shucked his too big jacket over to hang it on the seat beside him and he slid onto the stool next to Brendon. He looked to his side at Brendon who nodded toward him. Eric tilted his head back. “Hey, Urie. You're early.”

“Hi, Eric,” Brendon returned. "And yeah, I am."

“What for?” Eric asked. He perked up. “Excited for that payday?”

“No, actually, I was here to see you,” Brendon replied and a split second of confusion passed through him as he followed up with, “How did you know about that?”

Eric couldn’t keep the utter bewilderment from his face. A bit of excitement there too though. “You wanted to see _me_?”

Brendon nodded. It was true. He had. He still did.

“What for?” Eric asked, eager. 

“Riddle!” Jon shouted and hit the bar with a hand. Eric and Brendon both snapped their heads to look at him. Jon stilled, and said more calmly, “Urie’s got a riddle for you.”

“Okay?” Eric said slowly, raising an eyebrow. He didn't remove his gaze from Jon. As if Jon Walker was worth looking at.

“Definition of love, Ronnie,” Jon said and pointed a finger at Eric before taking a swig of his drink. “Go.”

“Definition of love?” Eric repeated. He turned to Brendon with wide eyes and Brendon snorted just by the appearance. Eric lowered his voice, directing the question at Brendon. “How pissed is he?”

“Wasted,” Brendon answered, shaking his head and snickering.

“I’m fine,” Jon snapped, overhearing the exchange. 

“Did Cassie kick you out again?” Eric asked, turning back to Jon with a knowing look. Jon scowled at him but not in an angry way. Just upset he'd been caught in the act once again. “You know it’s ‘cause you’re an alcoholic.”

Jon took a drink. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

Brendon smiled. “Of course you’re not.”

“You got a definition or not?” Jon snapped impatiently, directed at Eric. 

“Well, I don’t have anything prepared.” Eric drummed his fingers on the bar. The beat wasn't so bad. Brendon wondered what it was like to be able to come up with tunes no matter where he was. Eric was incredibly talented. Someone needed to tell him that. “Love is, y’know. A deep… desire? For someone? A want, I guess, that you can’t explain. A want for someone else. Perhaps, someone you can't have.”

He sent a look to Brendon from the corner of his eyes. Oh. So he meant Ryan. Of course, he meant Ryan. Brendon didn't know if he agreed. A deep desire for Ryan Ross? Did he have that? Sure, he wanted a lot of things from Ryan. Wanted him to keep on smiling that nervous smile. Wanted him to laugh that quiet laugh and play with the pages of his stupid baby bible. Brendon wanted to kiss Ryan on the face—all the bruises that covered it—and hug Ryan and hold Ryan’s injured hands in his own. Brendon wanted to hold Ryan’s hand. Wanted Ryan Ross to keep sleeping in his bed. Brendon wanted to keep sleeping in it with him. 

He _was_ in love, wasn’t he? 

_Fuck._

“That’s a piss poor answer,” Jon grunted and Brendon forced his eyes back to the other two men nearby. He was in love. He was in love and Eric Ronick knew it and Jon Walker was drunk off his ass.

“Sorry.” Eric shrugged but he didn't look disappointed. “I didn’t have time to get my speech prepared.”

Brendon laughed in reply. It was funny. 

“If you’re so smart, Jonathan, what do you think the definition of love is?” Eric batted his eyelashes in Jon’s direction and smiled all too sweetly. 

_Jonathan._ Brendon glanced over to see if Jon would react like he thought he would. Bare his teeth and threaten Eric’s life. But he didn’t so much as flinch, keeping his eyes trained on Eric lazily. Eric was smiling at him like he knew something Brendon and Jon didn’t. Although, Jon smiled back and Brendon realized he was the only one out of the loop.

“He didn’t have one,” Brendon answered when Jon and Eric continued to stare at each other in silence. 

“So why’re you getting fed up with me?” Eric cried but he was laughing gently. 

Eric had a good temper. He was fairly funny and fairly attractive and there hadn’t been a time that Brendon hadn’t seen him smiling. He liked Eric. He could be good friends with Eric. He made a mental note to ask Eric out for a beer. Ryan might like him too. Perhaps Brendon could introduce the two. Although, chances were that Eric would say something incriminating and Brendon would be forced to kill him. He'd ask Eric out for a beer and maybe someday he could introduce him to Ryan. Once all the 'former love' drama blew over. If it ever did.

“Alright? You want a definition of love so bad? I’ll give you one,” Jon retorted and set his glass down on the counter to fold his arms tightly over his chest. He resembled an ill-mannered child. Eric and Brendon watched him expectantly with small smiles on their faces. “Love is… love is when you—”

“When you…?” Brendon bobbed his head and Eric laughed. 

“I’m getting there!” Jon hissed. “Love is when you are with… someone. And the rest of the world? It doesn’t even matter. Other people? Birds? Clouds? Work? Life? Fuck it.”

“Fuck clouds,” Eric repeated with a passion and Brendon cackled. 

“And air, fuck that shit too,” Jon said in agreement but he was smiling a lopsided, drunk smile directed at Eric. “When you’re with someone you love, you don’t give a shit about air. All you want to breath is _them_.”

“Wow,” Brendon said. There was a lump in his throat. He thought about Ryan Ross in his bed and Brendon's nose in his hair. He thought about how Ryan smelled. How he fit so flawlessly into Brendon's embrace. “That’s _poetic_ , Jon... You are really fucking drunk.”

Eric howled with laughter, slapping the top of the bar. 

Jon tried to look angry but he couldn’t manage and instead chuckled himself, looking down at his glass and shaking his head. “Maybe Cassie’s right.”

“About what?” Brendon asked. 

“I am an alcoholic.”

It was then as Eric nearly fell off his stool with laughter that was when Dallon Weekes decided to walk into the building, eyes sunken and a scowl on his face. He was wearing a black button-up, grey slacks a coat that hung loosely off his shoulders. He looked like a mess. But, upon seeing Brendon Urie, Eric Ronick, and Jon Walker in a fit of laughter, his scowl changed to a surprised 'o'. 

“Hey, Dally!” Eric cheered once he saw Dallon—unaware of Brendon's growing worry—and there were tears at the corners of his eyes from laughing. He wiped at them with a hand. “The man of the hour! C’mere, join us!”

Dallon walked over warily, sending a look to Brendon that asked ‘what the hell is happening?’ Brendon couldn’t find it in himself to stop smiling. 

“Hi, Dal,” he greeted softly, hoping that without saying it outright, Dallon knew what he meant. _I'm sorry I'm a liar and I'm sorry I'm doing this to you. I wish I knew how to stop._

“Uh hi, Brendon,” Dallon replied and he walked to stand next to Brendon, the opposite side to Eric. His hand instantly went to the small of Brendon's back, touching his shirt lightly. Brendon didn't flinch away from the touch but he certainly wasn't pleased by it. Dallon's brow was creased and he was looking Brendon over, inspecting. “How long have you been here?”

Brendon opened his mouth, not yet sure what to say. _Not long; I was busy this morning sleeping with Ryan Ross. But right after I finished there, I ran. So maybe an hour at most._

“A while,” Jon answered before Brendon could. “I called him over early to talk about payment. Two weeks are up already. Time flies, doesn’t it?”

Brendon sent a look over his shoulder to Jon Walker. Shock. Blatant shock. A thank you was hidden somewhere in his eyes too but he didn’t know if Jon caught it.

“Oh.” Dallon nodded carefully. His hand rubbed a smooth circle on Brendon's back through his shirt. Dallon probably meant it to be comforting. And if Brendon loved him, it would have been. “I was getting kinda worried. I went over to your apartment today when you didn’t come by—”

Like Brendon knew he would. 

“And I don’t have a key anymore so I couldn’t—”

“Ryan didn’t let you in?” Brendon interrupted. Half of him was glad that Ryan hadn’t. Dallon would have taken one look at the tidy couch and then into the bedroom and he would have known. Actually, he probably would have jumped to different conclusions. Brendon was relieved he hadn't made it inside the apartment. 

“Nobody was home,” Dallon answered. Brendon was impressed he didn't sound bitter about Ryan being at Brendon's house. Dallon was making an effort for him. Dallon loved him. 

The vast majority of Brendon was confused by what Dallon said. Where would Ryan be this late in the afternoon? Maybe he’d gone out to get dinner. Besides, he had a key and he knew his way around Clearfield now. It’d be fine. Brendon shouldn’t be worried. He was. But he shouldn’t have been. 

“So, what’s going on here?” Dallon gestured to Jon and Eric who was busy wiping tears from his cheeks. 

“Jon’s trying to define love for us,” Brendon replied and he sent a look over to the man in question who smiled drunkenly at Dallon. 

“Oh.” Dallon nodded again. The sad look on his face was beginning to fade into a small tilt of his lips. The beginning of a smile. His hand was still warm against Brendon's spine. “I’m sure that was eventful.”

“The watered-down version,” Eric said. “Is ‘fuck clouds and air,’ you don’t need ‘em.”

Dallon turned to Brendon with wide eyes and Brendon promptly laughed again. Dallon said, shrugging, and he smiled as he drifted his hand up Brendon's back to his shoulder, “Makes sense I guess. Never liked air anyway.”

The four of them laughed and Brendon couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, even as Dallon rubbed his back. It was nice, actually. The feeling. He only wished it was Ryan, not Dallon, touching him. The only thing that could have made the night better was if Ryan Ross was there laughing too. If he and Dallon hadn’t kissed and Ryan and he hadn’t slept together and it was Ryan Ross that was rubbing a hand over his spine through his shirt. Then the night would have been perfect. 

“Well,” Jon said, shaking his head to clear it and taking a final sip from his glass. “That’s enough of that. C’mon boys, we got a fag club to get up and running.” 

The other three men nodded in agreement and Brendon and Eric slid off their stools. Dallon walked beside Brendon, finally letting his hand fall away. And, as they walked down the stairs together in the basement, Brendon almost liked Jon Walker. 

Almost. He was getting there. Maybe he had more friends than he realized. 

When they got down to The Church, Eric sat at his piano like he’d missed it, running his hands over the keys and playing a quick succession of notes, smiling as he did so. Brendon shook his head, smiling to himself as he clambered up onto the stage after Eric. He walked over to the instrument, peering over it and Eric's nimble fingers at work. 

“So,” Eric began as he tapped a few notes out. The same beat from the bar top. “What were you gonna ask me?”

Brendon leaned on the piano. Eric didn’t tell him off for it. “I was gonna ask for your advice.”

“On?” Eric wasn't looking at him. His piano was much more important.

“Love,” Brendon sighed.

Eric glanced up, officially intrigued. “Definition, perhaps?”

Brendon nodded silently. He didn't have any words to express what he was feeling. None seemed to give the emotion justice. 

“Did I help?” Eric asked.

“Nope.” Brendon glanced to the other side of the bar where he could see Dallon pulling bottles from beneath the bar. He was tall and lean, well built and his waist was small. He was a specimen alright. Jon Walker knew it too, watching Dallon's waist as he worked. For a straight guy, Jon sure liked to stare. “Just made me more confused.”

“I saw him kiss you yesterday,” Eric mumbled and pressed the A key. “Making it official then.”

Brendon hung his head. He was mad at Dallon for doing that. He knew Eric would bring it up. He knew it. “Nothing’s official.”

“He thinks it is,” Eric stabbed the F. 

Brendon sighed. “It’s not.”

Eric looked at Brendon from the corner of his eyes as he pressed the D. His constant smile had since faded and the laughter was gone from his voice. He almost looked serious. “You need to tell him that.”

“I don’t know how.” Brendon sighed. “I love him, Eric. I do.”

“But not how he loves you.” Eric let out a long hum. Pressed the A twice. “Tricky.”

“I think…” Brendon kicked one of his oxfords on the stage, creating an uncomfortable screech on the wood. “I think you were right about—I think I’m in love with uhm… I don't think. I am. I'm in love with—”

“War boy,” Eric finished and Brendon let out a sharp breath. “It’s not a bad thing.”

“He’s straight. It's a problem.”

“Please.” Eric snorted. “It’s you. He’d be dumb to be straight around Brendon Urie.”

Brendon laughed half-heartedly. “Thanks, Eric.”

“Of course. Now c’mon.” Eric’s smile had surfaced again. Played his tiny song. G sharp. A. F. D. A. A. G sharp. A. F. D. It sounded fun, Brendon liked it. “Let’s sing one for all the homos who fell for war boys.” 

And Brendon smiled as he did. Smiled while he sang a song for Dallon Weekes, who fell in love with him. And he sang a song for himself, falling in love with Ryan Ross. Which he knew he was now. Knew he was in love, no matter how much he didn't want to be. He wished he could sing one for Ryan Ross. Wished Ryan Ross was moronic enough to fall for a war boy too. 

He skipped ‘Paper Doll’ that night. He wouldn’t be able to do it justice until he got his head sorted. Besides, Jon was too drunk to notice if he skipped a song or not. It was a good night for singing. His voice carried through the room well and half the time he couldn’t stop smiling. 

He wished Ryan was there. Ryan would have enjoyed the performance. 

Brendon walked off stage at around midnight—nearly an hour before his set was supposed to be over. But he could see Nicole standing to the side, staring at him with big eyes and it occurred to him she hadn’t sung in some time. Besides, Jon Walker was drunk. He had made a deal with himself. If Jon Walker was drunk, Nicole got to sing. And Jon Walker was wasted. So it was only fair that Nicole got to hum her heart out on The Church stage.

Brendon said his goodnight to the crowd and walked off stage into the group of people milling around and talking. He bobbed his head to Nicole who—without complaint—walked on stage and said into the microphone that she would be singing a song or two in Brendon's absence. 

The girls in the room cooed and Nicole batted her long eyelashes in reply before she sang sweetly into the microphone. Eric didn’t seem to mind either, his ever-present smile back on his face. He looked good with it on. Eric Ronick didn't look quite right with a frown. 

Brendon hummed along to himself—he knew the song—as he started towards the bar. A Tom Collins sounded lovely. He hadn’t had a cigarette in a while and sugar seemed like just the hit he needed. A cigarette and some sugar to clear his head. Something to get the toxicity of Ryan Ross's scent from his brain.

It was as he neared the bar that he felt a gentle hand tap him on the shoulder and a voice say, hesitantly, “It’s Brendon, isn't it?” 

“Yeah, Urie,” he answered as he turned around to face the speaker. “Who’s asking?”

The woman that stared back at him was in a lavender dress to her knees and had long black hair that hung over her shoulders in waves, glistening blue eyes, and a body to die for. Any heterosexual man would be head over heels for her, Brendon knew it. He wondered if she was Ryan’s type. 

Why did she look familiar?

“Sarah,” she answered, and as if she could sense the understanding that Brendon couldn't quite place, she added, “I’m your neighbor. Room 302, right?”

The world fell abruptly into place. Sarah Orzechowski. The girl who was up in the hallway at ungodly hours of the night because Ryan’s screaming had been keeping her up. Brendon stared at her, dumbfounded. He tried to get his mouth moving. “Right. Yes, I remember you. Hi. I’m sorry about the hall, by the way, I know I was rude. I was just—I was tired, and there was a lot to worry about. Bad night, you know?”

Sarah nodded. She was looking Brendon over like she didn't quite understand what shew as looking at. “So was I; I understand.”

There was a beat of silence. Brendon wondered why she had grabbed hold of him. He also wondered why he hadn't seen her around before. Surely he would have noticed? Sarah wasn't the sort of girl you missed. She was gorgeous. Ryan would probably think she was a goddess.

“I didn’t know you were queer,” she said and why was it that she sounded… disturbed? It was an underground gay club for a reason. She was there too. So she was just as gay as he was; why was Brendon the one getting odd looks for it? He couldn’t think of anything to do other than laugh awkwardly and nod. 

“So that boy,” she went on before Brendon could speak, even though he didn't have anything to say. “At your apartment—”

Brendon blinked. “Dallon, you mean?”

He pointed a finger across the bar to where Dallon—in his black shirt and grey slacks and thin waist—was talking with someone Brendon didn’t know. Dallon didn’t notice him pointing. Sarah followed the point with her eyes but, upon seeing Dallon, shook her head, “No. Not him. I'm talking about the fresh-faced one. Young looking thing. Scared out of his mind. Why can’t I remember his name?”

Young? Scared? Brendon shook his head.

“He tripped up the stairs this morning,” Sarah continued on, appearing genuinely distressed that she couldn’t put a face to a name. She looked genuinely distressed about a lot of things. She shifted from one heel to the other. “Very sweet. Terrible bruising though, on his face; what happened? Boy looks like he’s been through Hell.”

Brendon’s face fell a bit, his chest going warm at the mention, and he wished he could will his heart out of his body. “Yeah… Right… You’re talking about Ryan.”

“ _Ryan_ , yes!” She snapped her fingers with the realization. “He must be your… _lover_ then; that makes a lot of sense. He's cute. And you, well you're very—”

Brendon didn't give her the chance to finish as his eyes went big. “Oh no! No. No, Ryan’s not my—he’s not my fella. Dallon over there, is my—”

Brendon cut himself short. He looked again to where he had been pointing. At Dallon who was chatting up a storm, flashing a businesslike smile. His heartbreaker blue eyes were bright and he adjusted the bottom of his black shirt over his slacks before using a hand to tuck it in. Oh, that was wrong to say. Wrong to say that Dallon was Brendon's fella. Dallon wasn’t Brendon’s anything. Dallon was his friend. His friend who he kissed sometimes. His friend that wished they were more. There was a pit in Brendon's stomach. 

Sarah made a face. A concerned, confused face. “You live with Ryan, don’t you?”

“Sort of,” Brendon answered, not able to take his eyes off of Dallon. His mind was other places than Sarah Orzechowski and her feminine allure. “He’s just staying for a little while. He’s straight actually, so if you could not mention this—”

Sarah’s expression sunk entirely from her face. Wiped off and she turned a shade whiter. The beauty she once held momentarily vanished. “He doesn’t know you’re a queer?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Brendon reiterated, finally turning back to her. He suddenly realized that Sarah must talk to Ryan in the hallway and he said instantly, “Listen, Sarah, if you could not mention this—”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, raising her hand to cover her mouth. 

Brendon frowned. Why had she done that? Why did she look like that? He asked, “Why would you be? It’s not really any of your business anyway so—”

“Oh my god.” She covered her mouth fully with both hands and her eyes were aghast. Big blue eyes formed to terrified saucers. She was starting to worry him a little. What had he done wrong? “I’m _so_ sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” 

“It’s… fine?” Brendon tried, confused out of his mind. What was wrong with this girl? What was she going on about? “Listen, Ryan’s my closest friend and he—Well it’s just that Ryan—”

Brendon glanced away from Sarah, over her shoulder—anything to avoid the horror-stricken look she had fixed him with—when he noticed Jon Walker across the crowd, pointing a shaky, drunk finger at him. Why was Jon Walker pointing at him? Like he was gesturing at Brendon, showing someone to where he was. It was then that Brendon noticed the figure next to Jon Walker. The figure half shadowed in the darkness of The Church but still plainly visible.

A slim man—a good man and a war boy at the same time—with a white button up and suspenders, a bruised eye, and the astonishment—the revulsion—on his face was plain to see even across the bar. 

The bottom of the sky dropped out, crushing Brendon with its weight. Someone had dropped the earth on its side and the sky and all the clouds that Jon Walker said not to worry about had flattened Brendon to the ground. All the air left his chest. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispered. “Ryan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this took a few days! Been working like crazy. That being said, I am so excited to write this next chapter!! Hopefully, the wait won't be more than two days. Thank you so much for reading!


	25. I Probably Know Not to Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Me, livin' my best life writing a chapter in a day** : Oh boy, can't wait to post this entire chapter early! 
> 
> **My bitch-ass computer** : Hey what if I just like... crash... and delete _everything_? Doesn't that sound fun?
> 
> Wrote this entire chapter twice; that's why it was three days instead of one. Sorry for the wait; I really did want it to be out sooner. But it's all good! It's here now! Enjoy!

Ryan tripped up the stairs on his way back to Brendon’s apartment. Right over his own feet like he'd never walked before. 

It had taken him a good twenty minutes to find Brendon’s key and he cursed himself for misplacing it. It was a waste of time, ambling around Brendon’s apartment in his sweaty t-shirt and briefs, turning over the couch cushions and stripping the sheets of the bed. Although frankly, Brendon would probably be happy Ryan changed the sheets. No more memories of sleeping with Ryan Ross. No more tainted covers; Ryan was doing him a favor.

He could have sworn he had gone to bed with the chain around his neck so, needless to say, he was a tad confused when it appeared on the bedside table. He didn’t remember putting it there. Didn’t remember taking it off at all. He must have removed it before going to sleep and just didn’t remember.

Seemed he didn’t remember a lot of things. 

But he got the feeling that Brendon remembered too much. Why hadn’t he stuck around? He didn’t need to go singing until late. Around seven or so, something like that. He left at three in the afternoon. Three in the afternoon, they’d slept to. That was late. 

Ryan couldn’t complain though, he had never slept so well. He needed the rest. His body still felt fantastic, better than he had in three years almost. Otherworldly, this feeling. It wasn't loving, was it, that made him feel this way? Surely not. Just because he was in love with Brendon Urie didn't mean his body felt better because of it. 

Love didn't work that way. Not that Ryan _did_ know how it worked. He didn't and neither did Brendon.

He wondered _why_ Brendon had run off so early. Where exactly he had run off to. It couldn't be to sing, to the Walk of Shame. He probably went to Dallon’s. Brendon almost certainly went off to that friend of his—a good friend like Dallon would be willing to listen—so he could try to explain what he had been doing in bed with Ryan. 

He probably needed someone to confess his problems to. Someone to tell, ‘I slept in a bed with Ryan Ross and I didn’t want to and now I don’t know what to do about it. I made a mistake and I don’t want to make it again.’

Ryan needed someone to talk to. Someone to confess his sins to. Someone that he could tell, ‘I’m in love with Brendon Urie and he slept with me and I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to do it again; do you know what to do?’ 

No one would have an answer though. 

Besides, Brendon was having girl troubles. Ryan couldn’t help with that. And that further proved how simply absurd it was that Ryan was as infatuated with Brendon as he was. 

Girl troubles. Brendon was having problems with a girl he was messing around with—that meant sex; Brendon was having sex with some girl—and she was falling in love with him. Ryan pitied that girl. Pitied himself for being so stupid as to fall in love with Brendon. 

Brendon Urie was having girl troubles with a girl who was in love with him. But _he_ wasn’t in love with her. That’s what Ryan had to keep him going. That was the silver lining. That Brendon wasn’t in love yet. Or, more accurately, Brendon had said he didn’t know what love was. That wasn’t any more comforting. 

Brendon Urie had asked him, 'what’s the definition of love? How do you know you love someone?'

And all Ryan had thought to say was, 'you’ll know if you love someone.'

But it was the truth. Ryan did know. 

What if Brendon fell in love with that girl? What was her name; Brendon had never said. It was probably something beautiful. She was probably _someone_ beautiful. Why hadn’t Brendon ever mentioned her before? Ryan had only been away from him for a week. So either this girl fell in love with Brendon in a week (which wasn’t that hard, actually, Ryan had first-hand experience) or this girl knew Brendon before he went to France. 

That was presumably it. She knew him before and then she had three years Brendon Urie-free to realize that she couldn’t live without him. Ryan knew the feeling too. If that was the case, the girl wouldn’t let him go. She’d hold on tight. Sink her claws into Brendon Urie and bite anyone that got too close.

Ryan would too if he were the girl in love with Brendon Urie. He wasn’t going to fight a girl for Brendon’s affection. It was a pointless fight. He wouldn’t win.

He was going to have to stay around in Clearfield and watch as Brendon fell in love with someone, wasn’t he? He was going to have to watch Brendon Urie—who he was in love with—fall head over heels for someone else. 

Ryan didn’t know if he could do that. 

But Brendon said he cared. He said that Ryan mattered to him. And Ryan’s heart thumped uncomfortably every time he thought about it. That was the closest to an ‘I love you’ he could ever hope to get from that man. So he’d treasure it. Hold those words close to his heart until something else came about to crush them. 

Z had said, 'I love you too' and Brendon had said, 'you matter to me, Ryan.' 

And to Ryan, they might as well have meant the same thing. 

He fixed his daily uniform on; suspenders and his button up and stared at himself in Brendon’s bedroom mirror for some time after he found the key. Let the chain hang out of his shirt and over his chest. His hair was messy, still too long and there were dark rings beneath his eyes. He needed to eat, he was getting too skinny and his shirt hung off him. The bruises on his skin were fading but they still glared an ugly yellow shade. He hated them. Hated the mirror's interpretation of him. 

He scrounged around in Brendon’s cupboards to make himself dinner; something to make his ribs less noticeable. Baked himself a potato and sat at Brendon’s bar, picking at it for a good half hour before he forced himself to eat any of it. His throat was nearly too dry to swallow but he managed the best he could.

His mind was too preoccupied to want to eat and his stomach was turning with thoughts of love rather than of hunger. He had a simple enough brain. It got distracted easily. Brendon Urie was holding most of his attention lately. 

Was that bad? He didn’t really know. 

Brendon Urie wasn’t a bad thing to have on the brain. Love wasn’t a bad thing to think about. It just—It was a sad thing. And it didn’t have a very good ending. Never did. 

Z had broken his heart. The only girl he ever loved and he lost her and his best friend in the same day. 

Brendon Urie was going to break his heart too and they weren’t even romantically involved, how crazy was that? Ryan needed to get his priorities in order. 

He wondered what Z was up to. What Spencer and she were doing. Maybe they were engaged. They’d been dating for around two years supposedly; that was time enough to get married. Spencer was probably too cheesy to buy a ring. But Z wouldn’t mind. Not if she loved him. 

Brendon’s rings were on the bedside table next to the army men Ryan had bought from Patrick Stump at the toy store. Why had Brendon left without them? Ryan sat on the edge of the bed that no longer had sheets on it. A barren bed that wasn’t his and it sunk beneath his weight when he sat. 

He picked up each ring individually and held it to eye level. Turned it about to inspect it. 

He’d never been very enticed of rings. Girls could wear rings if they wanted, and eventually, Ryan would have wanted for him and Z to wear matching rings. Someday. But he hadn’t started to become so enamored with them until Brendon Urie began stealing them off of corpses. 

Brendon Urie looked good in rings. The way they fit around his fingers and the scar of a dog bite that sat on Brendon’s left hand. The way Brendon’s fingers were long and the way they clenched around a cigarette or waved hello, or saluted Ryan goodbye when he kept leaving. And because of all those things—because of Brendon—Ryan Ross decided he was liked rings after all.

Ryan liked Brendon and some other girl was in love with him and that wasn’t a fight worth fighting because Ryan wouldn’t win. Clearfield wasn’t a town worth staying in. 

What were his options exactly? He could go home—even though it wasn’t home really; it was just a house in Vegas—where Z and Spencer would dance around him on their tiptoes like he was something fragile, quick to break. He could go back to Vegas where his dad would die soon. Go to the funeral and stand there alone without a single good thing to say. Ryan could go back to Vegas. 

Or— 

Or he could stay in Clearfield, Utah with a man he was in love with. He could stay and watch Brendon Urie fall in love with someone else. 

Las Vegas, Nevada had never been so inviting before. 

Ryan picked at the key that hung around his neck and played Brendon’s rings through his fingers. Looked over each of them with a new perspective. If Brendon ever proposed to a girl, she could wear one of those rings. Would she be disgusted that they came off a corpse? Perhaps. 

Anyone else in the world would think a dead man ring was vulgar; horrendous and not to be touched. Ryan Ross and Brendon Urie knew better though. A dead man ring was important. A promise wasn’t something to be wasted. 

Ryan walked around the apartment twice and checked the clock. It was only four thirty. He had to do something with himself. Something, _anything_. 

He left the apartment and took a walk around Clearfield. His legs carried him but he didn’t have a destination in mind. He just needed to do something. Found himself at Patrick Stump’s toy store where he’d bought a pack of toy soldiers—all of which still sat on the table next to Brendon’s bed in their plastic wrapping. Untouched. 

The store was closed and Ryan was forced to choose a new route. 

He found himself at Joe’s Coffee Shop and ordered a cup of sugar with some coffee. Drank it how Brendon would. Tasted the sweetness down his throat, practically choking him. Sugar was too thick. How did Brendon stand it? Ryan felt like he was being devoured by sugar, eating him through with its sweetness. 

Clearfield was a nice place. Brendon’s place. And Brendon was going to fall in love with a girl there and they were going to sleep in the same bed together and he wasn't going to take a shower immediately after or run away to God knows where and Ryan was going to have to bear witness to it. 

He needed to talk to Brendon. He needed to leave Clearfield. Where was Brendon? His work. To sing. The Walk of Shame. Ryan didn’t have a clue where that was. He would have to wait at the apartment until Brendon got back to talk to him. To tell him he was leaving Clearfield; he’d been away from home for far too long. 

Whatever that word was supposed to mean. 

'Home.'

Ryan hated the word.

He walked back, sugar on his tongue and eating him from the inside out and an uneasy feeling in his heart as he hobbled up the stairs, his mind on anything other than walking. 

On his way back up to the apartment, up those stupid stairs to Brendon’s room, Ryan stepped wrong, lost his footing and tripped, stumbling onto the dusty ground. It was a hard fall and his cut palms skidded over the ground, stinging and tearing scabs from old wounds. His knees hit the cement next with a crash and he winced, letting out a sharp breath at the contact. 

His eyes were burning and he reached up hurriedly to wipe at them. What the hell was this? He wasn’t crying. He was _not_ crying, what the hell? His eyes were watering a little because he’d hit the ground too hard. His body hurt was all. His body hurt a hell of a lot and his mind hurt too and, _fuck_ , did his heart hurt. 

It was then—the palms of his cut hands pressed into his eye sockets—that the voice reached his ears. It was somewhere above him and the thought of someone looking down on him, crouched over on the stairs was enough to make his face burn worse in embarrassment. 

“Hey, are you okay?” They asked.

Ryan nodded, wiping again at his eyes. He tried to get up. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry; I’m blocking the way, aren’t I?” 

He stood blindly, trying to fix the burning sensation that was sprouting through his eyes as he got to his feet. Ryan moved out of the way, pressing his back to the wall so that whoever it was could make their way down the stairs without him in their path. 

The person didn’t travel down the stairs, however, instead moving closer toward him. 

“It’s really alright,” they said and it was undoubtedly a woman’s voice. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Ryan managed to pull his hands from his eyes, vision slightly blurred, as he peered up at the woman who stood a few feet away from him, one of her arms outstretched to help him if he needed it. He didn’t need help. He shook his head and wiped at his eyes one last time to clear them. “No, no. I’m fine. I just tripped.” 

“You’re bleeding.” The woman—who was really quite attractive, black hair like Brendon had and crazy blue eyes like Dallon in a light purple dress—pointed at his wrist. 

Ryan glanced down to find one of the cuts on his palm opened and a thin trail of blood streaked across the base of his palm. He caught himself on a small laugh. _Of course._ “Oh, yeah. Appears I am. Whoops.” 

The woman didn’t seem like she knew exactly how to react so Ryan glanced up, fixing her with a crooked smile which she reluctantly returned. She asked worriedly, “You sure you don’t need anything? A bandage or something?”

“No it’s alright; really it is. I’m used to it.” Ryan inwardly cringed. That wasn’t the right thing to say. That made him sound pathetic. “Please never tell anyone that I just fell _up_ the stairs; that would be embarrassing.”

“I don’t know exactly how I would bring that up in conversation,” the woman said and she smiled more genuinely at him. “Doesn’t sound like a very entertaining story.”

She was right about that. Ryan wasn’t worth a good story. He forced a chuckle. “Right. Yeah. We don’t know each other; I don’t know who I expected you to tell.”

“I’m Sarah,” she said in reply. Sarah; that was a pretty name. It fit her. 

“Ryan,” he told her. 

“Ryan, hi. Are you new to the building?” She asked. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“No, no.” Ryan shook his head and he wiped at his wrist to get the blood off it. There wasn’t very much; he could wash it off no problem when he got to the bathroom. “I don’t live here. Visiting only. Friend of mine, Brendon Urie. You might not know him; he’s been away for a while.”

Ryan looked back up to her and Sarah nodded vigorously. “I do actually. Yes, I know him. Sweet fella.”

There was something about how she glanced away. Ryan stiffened. Brendon had been gone three years and he didn’t go out much. He went to work and then he spent the day with Dallon or Ryan. So him knowing a pretty girl like Sarah was—What if Sarah was the girl that loved him?

Ryan felt his stomach do an unsolicited flip. 

Ryan paused, realizing that if Sarah knew Brendon, chances were she knew where the Walk of Shame was as well. Ryan asked quickly, “You wouldn’t by any chance know where he works? He sings at a bar.”

Sarah made an odd face. 

“I mean, I know it’s called the Walk of Shame but—as I said—I’ve never been in Clearfield before,” Ryan went on, looking at her hopefully. “He told me to drop by whenever I could but he neglected to give me directions. Do you know where it is?”

Sarah nodded slowly, brow furrowing. “Yeah, I know where the Walk of Shame is; are you sure he sings? Walk of Shame doesn’t have any live singers.”

Ryan frowned, brow knitting together. That’s what Brendon had told him. Brendon wouldn’t lie about something as trivial as where he worked. He was proud of singing. And he had said that Ryan could come… eventually. When he talked to Dallon. Well, Ryan was tired of waiting. If he wanted to go see Brendon sing he was damn well going to see Brendon Urie sing. 

“Do you mean…” Sarah glanced down at the floor and then down the hall as though perhaps someone was listening. She dropped her voice so only the pair could hear. “Do you mean The Church?”

Ryan blinked. The Church? What the hell was 'The Church'? He paused, thinking to when Brendon had first said that he sang at a bar. When Ryan had asked which one and Brendon and said, ‘The Ch—Walk of Shame.’ 

Ryan frowned deeply. 

And suddenly, curiosity was bustling throughout his body and mind. So he nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I mean.”

“Wow,” Sarah said in soft awe. “Never suspected, he doesn’t give off the vibe. But yeah, I can take you there, no problem.” Sarah pulled back as there was no more need for lowered voices. No more secrets to tell. “It’s not a long walk. Two miles at most.”

Ryan nodded, pushing himself off the wall. He didn’t get the chance to ask ‘what vibe?’ as he wiped the drying blood on his palm against his pants. It would stain the fabric—he knew that—but he couldn’t find himself caring all that much. “Would you now, please?”

“Of course, c’mon.” Sarah offered him her arm. “Do you need any help walking? You’ve got a limp; did you hurt your leg on the stairs?”

“Oh no.” Ryan declined Sarah’s outstretched limb with a dip of his head as he sauntered from the wall over to her. “I’ve always had this limp.”

“Really? How come?” She asked him as they started down the stairs, Sarah looking over her shoulder to see him stagger down them. Like he might fall again and she would need to catch him. 

“Fell out of a tree when I was young,” he lied.

She sent him a skeptical look. He was a shit liar, after all. Even people that didn’t know him could tell. “And your face? Those bruises permanent too?”

He smiled at her. “I fall a lot.”

“Really?” Her frown deepened.

“No. I’ve been overseas for the past three years actually,” he replied and that was a sure fire way to make her stop asking questions. “War, y’know. Get some bruises in war. Tends to happen.”

Sure enough, Sarah snapped her mouth shut. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

Ryan shrugged and he avoided eye contact. “I wouldn’t have expected you to. I don’t think you’re supposed to be able to look at a person, point, and say ‘war.’”

Sarah laughed and Ryan wasn’t exactly sure why. He hadn’t meant it as a joke. 

“You know Brendon served,” Ryan remarked, trying to make a hole in the conversation for Sarah to fill about her and Brendon’s past. 

If she was the girl who was falling in love with Brendon Urie, Ryan would probably be able to tell. Loving that man wasn’t something you kept secret. Sarah was allowed to say it outright. Sarah was a girl. She could love whatever man she wanted. Ryan found himself envying her position. 

But if she was in love with Brendon, in a way, he also pitied her. Pitied that Brendon didn’t love her back. Pitied himself for falling in love with Brendon at all. 

“I didn’t,” she answered and glanced over at him. “Is that how you two know each other?”

“Uh huh.” Ryan nodded mechanically. “Served together in France.”

“I hear France is beautiful,” Sarah said dreamily; the two of them had successfully reached the bottom of the stairs and were now walking side by side on the asphalt. The moon was up. Someone might see the two of them and incorrectly assume that they were a couple. Which they weren’t. 

Ryan looked at his shoes. Shiny orvals without a spec of blood on them. He shrugged. “It was alright.”

They walked the rest of the way to the Walk of Shame in mostly silence. Every now and again Sarah would say something about France; about the places she had been before. Ryan would nod and smile at her. He hadn’t known what else to do. 

When they arrived at the Walk of Shame/Church—whatever it was really called—Ryan was fairly confused. There was a large sign out front that said ‘Walk of Shame’ so if Brendon was telling the truth, they were at the right place. But there wasn’t a sign that said ‘The Church’ so Ryan didn’t have any idea what Sarah was on about. 

The building was tall and dirty looking and Ryan could hear the sound of music coming from inside. It certainly wasn’t Brendon’s voice and Ryan’s mouth drew itself into a tight line. Music didn’t sound as good when it wasn’t sung by Brendon. 

There was a man sitting on a stool outside the door, looking incredibly bored, but he perked up upon seeing Ryan and Sarah approaching, sitting a little taller. 

He was scary, to a certain degree. Or, at least, Ryan knew he _wanted_ to be scary. But Ryan had seen a lot of things in the last three years so a bouncer at a bar didn’t do him much fright. Didn't even have a gun.

“Hi,” Sarah greeted and her voice was different. Ryan looked over in surprise to see that her eyelids had dropped as well. She knew she was beautiful then, didn’t she? Brendon and she would look good together. Two pretty people who knew they had beauty and—even worse—knew how to be dangerous with it. 

“Hey,” the man answered and he smiled at her leeringly. “Sierra, isn’t it?”

“Close enough,” she replied; definitely a flirtation. “Think I could get in there, plus one?”

The man looked over at Ryan, instantly letting his expression of delight drop. Ryan wasn’t as welcome a sight as Sarah was. “And you are?”

“Ryan,” he answered somberly; he didn’t have the sort of beauty he could play games with. “I’m friends with Brendon, if you know him.”

Instantly, the man’s expression shifted to surprise. “Urie?”

It was sort of nice hearing other people say his name. Sometimes it felt as if Brendon existed for no one but Ryan himself. It was refreshing hearing that Brendon existed to other people too. But at the same time, Ryan wanted to keep Brendon to himself. That was selfish, wasn’t it? Clearfield deserved Brendon Urie more than Ryan ever could. Ryan was selfish for wanting it any other way. 

“Yes,” Sarah answered for him. 

Ryan nodded. “I’m staying with him.”

“You said your name was ' _Ryan_ '?” The man repeated, eyes still wide. 

Ryan nodded, frowning. Why did that matter?

The man whistled in a low tone and his smile had grown. He spoke more to himself than he did to Ryan and Sarah as he said—beneath his breath, “Eric’s gonna shit bricks when he sees this.”

Ryan opened his mouth to ask who ‘Eric’ was and why he would be ‘shitting bricks’, raising a finger in question, but Butch had already stood to pull the door open. 

“Well?” the man asked incredulously. “Go on then. Jon should be at the bar if you wanna chat with him first. He’s a stickler for attendance, but I don’t think he’ll have a problem with you. What took you so long to show up, huh? Eric’s been going on about it for the last week. I think Urie’s still on—an hour or so more for his set—but you might be able to get him to leave early. Jon is _wasted_ , so tonight might be your lucky night. I’d recommend heading to the bar to have a word with him first; check in with him before you go pulling Urie off the stage.”

Ryan tried not to make his confusion too evident. ‘Jon’? Who the hell was _Jon_? Why was Ryan known at all? Who was Eric? Why was this man talking like he actually knew who Ryan was? Brendon hadn’t mentioned him, surely not. That wouldn’t be much of a story to tell either. 

‘Ah yes, you see, there’s this leech that’s been staying with me for the past week. His name’s Ryan Ross and I just don’t know what to do to rid myself of him. He _clings_. Sucks all the blood from me and I can’t get him to _leave me alone_.’

But Ryan didn’t ask to confirm any of his suspicions, instead letting Sarah lead him into the bar.

It was a large place, he could tell, but the entire place was made increasingly smaller by the number of people inside, stinking up the place with body heat and odor. Ryan drew back at the stench. 

Brendon sang in a place like this? Surely not. Brendon had class. 

“Who is 'Jon'?” Ryan asked over the sound of the jukebox, directed at Sarah who seemed to know a lot more about things then she had previously let on.

“Jon Walker,” Sarah elaborated and she reached back to take Ryan by the wrist to lead him through the bustling bodies around them. Ryan shrunk when he bumped into someone. “You really are out of the loop, aren’t you? He owns the place. I know his wife actually, Cassie; we play bridge every now and then. Only ever met _him_ a few times, nice enough guy though. Cassie's a real catch. Good looking couple. Butch said if we want to get Brendon off early we’ve gotta talk to Jon first.”

Ryan _was_ out of the loop. Depressingly so. He wasn't even aware there was a loop. He felt like he was walking into a whole other world. One that Brendon had hidden away from him and he didn’t know why. He also didn’t want to take Brendon off stage early. Brendon was made for the stage, he couldn't possibly take him away. He wanted to listen to Brendon sing and then have a word with him after. 

When Brendon finished singing. Then Ryan would tell him he was leaving Clearfield.

If he was going to leave Clearfield he at least had to hear Brendon sing one more time though. He might never get the chance again.

The realization of that weighed heavy on Ryan's heart but he let out a breath and tried to focus back on what Sarah had been saying.

There was a new sort of determination to Sarah as she weaved the two of them through the crowd. That was further demonstrated when she looked over her shoulder at Ryan, blue eyes gleaming. She was a very pretty girl.

“I haven’t been here in ages,” she told him eagerly. 

“Oh?” He made a sound of question. He didn’t care so much about Sarah’s former escapades but she was smiling and that made him think he was doing something right; something he needed to keep doing. 

Sarah elaborated, “It opened up two years ago or something of that sort. '43 I think." That was the year 'Paper Girls' came out in Normandy. The year Ryan stole Mike's baby bible. "And I used to come all the time. There was a girl that sang here, Nicole, and God she is just about the loveliest dish you’ll ever meet. But then y’know, she announced she was engaged and all that—love drama, you know how it is for us—”

For who exactly, Ryan wasn’t quite sure. 'Us'? Ryan didn't know what that meant. He also was very confused about who ‘Nicole’ was. He wished Sarah would stop talking to him like he was in on whatever secret she was discussing. He was so confused. 

“So I haven’t been back since,” Sarah continued on like Ryan had followed any of what she’d just said. “I’d say she broke my heart but she didn’t really; we knew what we were getting into. That’s how it always is. But you and Brendon seem to be doing well enough.” 

Ryan blinked. Heartbreak? For a girl? A girl on girl? That would imply that Sarah and Nicole were both kikis and now Ryan was _very_ confused because what sort of kiki would openly admit it to a man? What sort of queer at all just gave out their biggest secret like it was something common? Ryan had never met a queer person before. 

Sarah was queer? Why was she admitting it to him?

And on the topic of mysteries and things Ryan Ross couldn’t wrap his head around; Brendon had said it was a speakeasy. Ryan wondered if that was what this was. A club with a hidden speakeasy inside. That was a little over-elaborate though. Brendon singing at a speakeasy, hidden away somewhere within a larger club. Speakeasies weren’t that big a deal. 

Something was settling heavy in his stomach. Some sort of realization that didn’t make sense and he was stupid for thinking. Because there was no way that _Brendon Urie_ was a—

“There he is,” Sarah pointed to the bar, dragging Ryan over. 

The two of them reached the bar—which had maybe four people sitting and drinking; chatting each other up.

Ryan never understood the appeal of a bar. He’d only ever been a couple of times to one with Spencer, who loved the bar experience. Loved how many girls hung on him and smiled and pressed kisses to his temple. Ryan didn’t. No girl wanted to hang all over a boy with a limp and a long term girlfriend. Maybe if Ryan had been single in his early twenties he would have enjoyed bars a bit more. If he hadn’t wasted those prime years on a girl that would only end up breaking his heart. 

There was a man on the other side of the counter—not serving anyone drinks but himself—seemingly falling all over the place. He had the neck of a bottle of rum clasped in one hand. 

“Excuse me,” Sarah annunciated over the sound of the music. She hadn’t let go of Ryan’s wrist; he wished she would. “Mr. Walker?”

“I’ll be down in a minute, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Mr. Walker snapped and his speech was slurred. He didn’t turn around to face them. “We were out of rum.”

He brandished the bottle and Ryan flinched slightly, worried the bottle might slip out of Walker’s hand and hit someone. He wondered who exactly Jon Walker thought they were. And what exactly ‘down’ meant. 

“Mr. Walker,” Sarah repeated and finally Jon Walker shot his head up, scowling. 

The moment he saw Sarah and Ryan though, he appeared only startled. They obviously weren’t who he had been expecting. He wasn’t an unattractive man by any means but his beard was scraggly and his eyes were sunken, a sheen of ignorance across them that came only with alcohol’s presence. One side of his collar was flipped up and the first two buttons of his shirt were undone. He _was_ wasted.

“You—” He said drunkenly, pointing at Sarah with a shaky finger. “Are not Dally. But you _are_ very pretty; hello.”

Sarah appeared blatantly disgusted. So much for playing the beauty card. Who the hell was ‘Dally’? These names were getting thrown around left and right. Wait a second, Ryan might actually know that one. _Dally_. Dallon Weekes worked at the bar, Brendon had said that. Ryan knew something! He knew it!

“You’re Jon Walker?” Ryan said aloud, even though it had already been established when the man had responded to ‘Mr. Walker’ but Ryan wanted to make absolutely sure. Brendon Urie was serious business and so far none of the night was making any sense. 

“Yes, I am, fathead,” Jon Walker said as he turned his face to Ryan, skimming Ryan up and down with his eyes, sizing him up. Ryan felt like a fly in a spider's web. “And who the hell are you?”

“I’m Ryan. Ross,” he answered, slightly dejected by the tone of voice Jon had used. Jon's eyes were dangerous. 

“And what the hell—Mr. Ross—could you possibly want from me?” Jon glared at him. 

“Brendon Urie,” Ryan answered and again Jon's appearance shifted. Ryan was worried he might sustain whiplash from all that changing. Anger to drunkness to astonishment. Surely his head was spinning. Ryan's was and he was simply watching.

“B?” Jon Walker asked. His voice had altered significantly as if he finally cared about what he was discussing. “The hell do you want with him?”

 _B_? Ryan didn’t like that very much. Didn’t like someone renaming Brendon. Brendon was a nice name—the best name—why would someone want to change it? He did his best to ignore the renaming of a perfectly good title though and said, “I’d like to speak with him if it’s alright? He said I could come by and uh... the man outside pointed me in your direction to clarify.”

“Huh.” Jon blinked a few times. His eyelids hung half way over his eyes. He looked like he was about to drop. “He’s singing right now.”

“I’m fine with waiting,” Ryan answered and he was. He would wait for however long he was required to. 

“I’m heading down anyway but I’m not pulling him off; I don’t care what Butch told you. That's my money up there,” Jon grunted and he bobbed his head for Sarah and Ryan to follow as he rounded the bar. He purposefully placed himself between Ryan and Sarah, smiling at her. “And you, doll, what’s your name?”

“It’s Sarah,” she said distastefully. Ryan smiled a little to himself at how disgustedly Sarah looked Jon Walker up and down. Like she didn’t like anything about what she saw. “And we’ve met before, Jon. Several times, in fact." 

He frowned as the three of them walked through the crowd. With Jon between them, the people parted to let them pass. Ryan made sure he kept close. He’d been walking too long; his limp was starting to ache.

Jon asked, genuinely unaware, “We have?”

“I’m friends with Cassie,” Sarah replied. She looked Jon up and down once more. Her eyes lingered on his hand and then on his inebriated eyes. “Happen to notice you don’t have your wedding ring on, Jon, what’s that about?”

Jon Walker’s face fell. He didn’t say anything in response as the three reached a door to the back of the room. He kept eye contact with Sarah as he knocked on it. Two clicks of his knuckles and a full handed slap.

Ryan frowned. They had a secret knock? What sort of speakeasy had a secret knock?

It only took a second before the door was being pulled open by a boy around the age of seventeen or so who smiled at Jon oafishly and said, “Mr. Walker, hi. Hello, sir.”

“Hi, Allen,” Jon greeted indifferently as he started down the stairs that had been revealed too—long and narrow, leading into the darkness—still holding onto his bottle of rum by the neck. 

“It’s Adam,” the boy said faintly, stiffening with a smile. “But you’re getting closer!”

Ryan didn’t say anything as he descended down the stairs after Jon Walker, Sarah close beside him, leaving Adam/Allen at the top of the stairs to close the door behind them. 

“You know it’s funny,” Jon said as they neared the bottom, glancing behind him at Ryan, skimming him up and down. “You don’t look like the kind.”

Ryan frowned—that’s what Sarah said; what ‘kind’ were they referring to?—as they reached the bottom of the stairs, out into the light of a new room, maybe half the size of the upstairs. There were sofas and people were lounging around and talking idly and smiling. There was a bar pressed to the corner of the room. And then, as Ryan turned, he noticed the stage. 

Noticed the piano that sat on it; the small band. The man that sat at said piano, hammering away as if his life depended on music and then— 

Then there was Brendon. 

Standing center stage—all eyes on him like they should be—smiling into a microphone and his voice carried through the room like a dream as he said in that voice only he had, “That’s all from me folks, but Nicole is going to carry you on through the night. Thank you so much; I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

He winked.

His voice was smooth and his eyes were lidded and there was sweat dripping down his face that glued his dark hair to his forehead. But he sounded like a fantasy; looked like one too. Brendon Urie was a dream. 

“What kind?” Ryan asked, unfocused on the words as he watched Brendon slid off the stage easily to hit the floor, smiling to a few people before he headed to the bar. Seemed they were right on time.

Sarah left their side almost instantly and Ryan watched her walk over to Brendon, waving her hand to get his attention. Ryan stood there, dumbfounded. 

It was as he was examining Brendon with his eyes that he noticed the couple sitting on the couch—two men—one with his hand on the other’s thigh and they were… Kissing? They were _kissing_. 

Two men. Kissing. Mouth on male mouth. In a bar. 

That was illegal. 

It hit Ryan all of a sudden that nearly every person in the establishment was glued to a person of the same sex. Ryan’s eyes went big and he could hear Jon Walker mumble out as he opened up his rum bottle detachedly, “The fag kind.”

Oh. 

_Oh._

“Well?” Jon’s voice sounded underwater. Ryan was sinking. “There he is. There’s your boy. Go. _Fetch_.”

Jon raised a finger to point in Brendon’s direction. 

Ryan stared at Brendon as Sarah caught up with him, tapping him on the shoulder. Brendon turned, his face illuminated by the dull glow of The Church. Of the gay bar. He smiled a nervous light at her in the dim glow.

“This isn’t a speakeasy, is it?” Ryan asked quietly. He sounded sad to his own years. “I’m in a queer club, aren’t I? This-this is a queer club. ”

Jon scoffed. Repeating with malice in his voice, “The hell do you mean a ‘speakeasy’? Those are old news kid, where you been?”

“France,” Ryan answered tiredly.

He sighed heavily, the breath coming out in a shiver. Jon Walker hadn’t stopped pointing.

“Brendon sings at a queer bar, doesn’t he?” Ryan’s head was trying to work. Trying to form coherent thoughts. He turned to Jon, blinked with dreary eyes. His voice was flat. “Brendon’s a fag, isn’t he.”

Jon looked to his side. “Hell you lookin’ like that for? You’re the one that’s close with him.”

“Apparently,” Ryan said as he turned back to Brendon. Brendon was gay. He liked men. Ryan was a man. Brendon Urie liked men—which Ryan was one—hadn’t told him and slept in bed with him. Ryan—a straight man—was in love with a queer. Holy _shit_. His heart had fallen into his shoes. “Not as close as I thought.”

It was then that Sarah raised her hand to her mouth in shock—even across the room Ryan could see it—and Brendon looked over her shoulder to see Ryan. 

It all happened so fast. So brutally fast that all the pieces crumbled into place as Brendon looked up to see him, caught Ryan’s whiskey stare. They made eye contact. Brendon could see him clear as day across the floor. And there was nothing but fear there. Undisguisable, true, all too real _fear_ in Brendon’s eyes. Primal, painful horror.

Ryan couldn’t hear his voice but he could see Brendon mouth his name. 

_Ryan._

And Ryan turned then—stiff as a board—and took the stairs two at a time. 

He ignored Jon Walker’s fading voice behind him calling out, “Kid? _Kid_? Where the hell are you going?”

Ryan scrambled up the stairs, heart pounding in his ears, and he pushed himself through the crowd of the Walk of Shame, the straight bar it seemed, above Brendon’s little secret gay one. 

Brendon lied to him. _Lied._

Ryan reached the street, went straight past Butch who didn't call after him and started to walk in the direction of the apartment. 

He got maybe ten feet out the door before he heard Brendon’s voice behind him, shouting hastily, “Ryan! Ryan, please, wait!”

Ryan didn’t so much as turn around, fists clenched and pressed against his legs as he walked. His fingernails were digging into his palms. He could hear the sound of shiny oxfords clicking on the sidewalk as Brendon ran to meet up with him. Sprinted, actually, by the sound of it. Why was Brendon chasing after him? He should have stayed at The Church with all his queer friends. The friends who actually knew the truth. 

What the hell was Ryan? Just some guy, wasn’t he, sleeping at Brendon’s house because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He didn’t know jackshit about Brendon Urie and he wondered if he ever did. Brendon didn't even care enough to tell him the truth.

“Ryan.” Brendon was beside him, jogging. He was begging, staring at Ryan with scared black eyes. “Ryan, please; slow down. Ryan, _please_. Please, I can explain—”

“You don’t need to explain,” Ryan snapped. His voice was venom. Poisonous acid that dripped from his mouth and sprayed in Brendon’s direction. 

Brendon—who was walking beside him at a record pace—flinched back. Some acid must have hit him. “Ryan, please. I’m so sorry. Let's talk about this. Please let us talk about this _please_. I’m so—”

“We’re in _public_ ,” Ryan hissed, trying to ignore how pleading Brendon sounded, how choked up and anguished. “So unless you want the entirety of Clearfield to know you’re a faggot—even though it seems most of them already do—you’ll stay hush hush until we get back to your apartment.”

Brendon twitched again. His eyes were glistening. He wasn’t about to cry, was he? Surely not. Ryan didn’t mean that much to him. It didn’t matter if he thought Brendon was a fag. His opinion didn’t matter. Why would Brendon be crying? Ryan was the one he lied to. 

The two walked in silence. 

Click went their shoes on the asphalt and street lights cast shadows over the ground.

Click, clack, click went their shiny shoes and thump, thump, thump went Ryan's dumb heart. 

Clicking shoes and rapid heartbeats until Brendon sniveled and Ryan snuck a glance over to him. He was walking with his eyes glued to his shoes as they walked and his hands shoved into his pockets. He looked small. Weak. The sweat that usually gave him a healthy, excited shimmer made him shine beneath the streetlamps in a way that only elicited sickness. Like he had a fever he couldn’t sweat out, making his body feeble and thin. His hair thinned and his cheeks looked hollower with the way the shadows fell on him.

Brendon Urie wasn’t supposed to look like that.

Ryan let his shoulders droop, the tension seeping from his body. Brendon reached up a hand to wipe hurriedly at his face and Ryan watched a teardrop fall to their shoes as they walked. Brendon was crying. He really was _crying_. 

Ryan’s heart just kept on breaking. 

Ryan said quietly, something to break the killing silence, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Brendon snapped his head up, looking at Ryan, startled. Ryan knew those red eyes. The same ones as Christmas of ‘44. Puffy and irritated and raw. Except there was no soggy cigarette. No dilapidated house to sit under. No Mike Naran getting shot in the foot. 

There was only Brendon Urie walking alongside him in Clearfield wearing a sweater with the sleeves rolled up sloppily and day-old trousers, dripping sweat that made him look sick, crying as they sauntered along because Ryan knew he was gay.

Brendon was _gay_. 

The phrase kept ricocheting around the inside of Ryan’s skull. Despairing and frantic. _Gay. Gay. Gay. Brendon’s gay and you’re in love with him. You’re in love with a gay man. You’re a fag. Fag. Fag. Fag._

Ryan mumbled, voice dry, “You should have told me.”

Brendon sniffed again and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, averting his eyes from Ryan. His voice was unclean, hindered by something in the back of his throat that kept it from sounding natural, “I know that.”

“So why didn’t you?” Ryan pressed as they walked along. The night was eerily quiet. A dead night with no sound but the stale air whistling, the click of shiny shoes, and Brendon Urie crying in the darkness.

“It’s not exactly something you tell people, Ryan,” he whispered. His voice cracked and Ryan squirmed with the hopeless sound. “I wanted to tell you. Believe me, I _did_ but—”

“You could’ve been shot.” Ryan hung his head and nodded to himself. “I know.” 

“Are you—” Brendon choked on his own voice and looked away. He couldn't bare seeing Ryan any longer. “Is this—Am I—? Are you gonna—”

“Let’s talk about it more when we get to your apartment, Brendon,” Ryan suggested in a murmur. His voice was just as miserable.

Brendon nodded, more of a jerk of his head than anything else, and the two walked the rest of the way in silence. Ryan limped up the stairs and Brendon watched him as he did so from behind, hesitant and his eyes kept darting around the stairwell. As if planning his escape. 

He could run if he wanted. Ryan didn't have the strength to go after him. 

He spoke, barely audible from behind Ryan, “Sarah said you fell today.”

“I did,” Ryan answered, unemotional, as he reached Brendon’s floor.

“Are you okay?” Why did Brendon sound like he cared?

“It doesn’t matter if I’m not,” Ryan replied curtly. 

Whether he fell in the stairwell or not didn’t matter. Sarah had said she wouldn’t tell anyone either. Everyone was lying to Ryan lately it seemed. Sarah, Z and Spencer, and Brendon too. The one fucking person that was never supposed to lie to him. The last person in the world that really mattered to Ryan.

And he _lied._

Ryan used the key hanging from around his neck to unlock the door and shove it open. More aggressive than he intended and Brendon recoiled when it hit the wall with a clatter. Ryan didn’t say anything and gestured with his head for Brendon to go inside—which he did, head hung low and shoulders slouched—Ryan following after him. 

The door’s click sounded like a gunshot when it closed. 

The room was mute. 

“So,” Ryan said, breaking the tension that ran between Brendon and him, tight as a rope. He wet his lips. “Say it then.”

Brendon risked a glimpse up at him from the floor, barely raising his head. “Say what?”

“You know what.” Ryan folded his arms tight over his chest. He was trying to hold his heart in his chest. “You can tell me now. I know. Fucking _say_ it.” 

Brendon sniffed again; his eyes wouldn’t stop gleaming so red and Ryan felt extremely guilty. He’d made Brendon cry. He wasn’t even mad at Brendon. Not really. He was just—He was _hurt_. He was allowed to be. Brendon _hurt_ him. 

Brendon opened his mouth. Closed it. And when he spoke it was a whisper, “I’m gay.”

That was it. That was the truth. 

It was so final coming from Brendon’s mouth. So surreal. Ryan nodded and his heart was hammering and his blood was pumping and he knew his face was flushed. He unfolded and refolded his arms and nodded and wet his lips a few more times. His body felt like it shouldn’t have been there. Like he didn’t fit into it quite right. 

He said, nervous and tense—the rope between them stretching further, ringing itself out, “Okay.”

Brendon’s eyes were shiny red like rubies on a dame’s necklace. Valuable and far too fragile. “It’s okay?”

“No it’s not fucking _okay_ ,” Ryan snapped, baring his teeth at Brendon how a dog would. How a dog in Metz had before it bit Brendon. “I’m pissed off. You lied to me.”

“I had to,” Brendon said loudly, swiftly. He had his arms wrapped around his middle—his stomach—in a protective manner. Trying to keep Ryan and his dog teeth out. “You know what the world does to faggots. You know! Thanks a lot Ryan, but I’d rather not risk my life just so you can feel validated.”

“ _Validated_?” Ryan repeated, alarmed. “What the hell does this have to do with my validation? I wanted you to tell me not because I want to feel _special_. I wanted you to tell me because I don’t want you to lie to me!”

“I’m a faggot, Ryan, that’s all I do!” Brendon shouted, his voice taking on a new inflection. Rage. “If I thought you wouldn’t care I would have told you!”

“What made you think I’d care?” Ryan shot back. He did care. He cared a lot. Too much in fact. 

“We were in the _army_ , Ryan!” Brendon’s eyes had turned from red with tears to red from the fire that had ignited within them. “I would have been shot! I would have been _killed_ —my head separated from my neck—Ryan, don’t you get that? If I’d let it slip to anyone—anyone at all—that I was queer, I would have lost my life. Don’t tell me I’m not acting rationally.”

Ryan blinked, long and slow. His voice was quiet. He was worried about the answer. “Did you think I’d hate you for it?”

“Of course I did,” Brendon answered. Defeat. There was a beat. He asked, halting, and there was hope in that voice, “Don’t you?”

How could Brendon think that? How could Ryan ever hate him? He let his arms drop to his sides. “Bren, of course I don’t. I could never _hate_ you.”

A fraction of Ryan wished he could. 

Brendon squinted. Agape and a lost expression in his red-rimmed eyes. “Then why are you—why are you making it out to be such a big deal? If you don’t hate me?”

“I don’t care who you have sex with, Brendon,” Ryan said through a heavy sigh even though a part of him did care. A large part of him cared who Brendon had sex with. But that wasn’t what mattered. “I care that you lied to me.” 

“I’m sorry,” Brendon said. He sounded like he really was. “I’m sorry, Ryan. But you have to understand—”

“That your life could have been put in danger, yeah.” Ryan chewed on his bottom lip. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and held the bridge of his nose. “I know… I _know_. I wouldn’t ever want to… to possibly hurt you. I understand. I do.”

“So you’re not—?” Brendon shook his head. “ _Are_ you mad at me?”

“I’m trying to figure that out,” Ryan answered and he forced a small smile at Brendon, opening one of his eyes, hoping it could lighten the serious mood the two had fallen into. Life wasn’t supposed to be this serious, They had managed to laugh at corpses and death and their friends shooting themselves in the foot. Why was this what made the world go still?

“My vote’s for no,” Brendon said and his simper was nothing but dismal. 

“I’m not mad at you,” Ryan decided finally. He wasn't. He was sad. “I would be a shitty friend if I were mad at you for something like that. I know… I know what it’s like to love someone—” He was staring at Brendon head on. “And not know how to control it. I don’t think gender comes into play with love.”

Brendon nodded in reply. He was staring at Ryan in amazement. A type of daze. “Yeah. Love’s an uh… love’s a confusing thing. I’m still… I’m very lost on the subject.”

Ryan agreed and he grinned at Brendon. “But can I—Can we talk about this?”

“You can ask me whatever the hell you want Ryan,” Brendon said, nodding rappidly. “I won’t lie to you. I promise I won’t.”

Ryan nodded. He said, out loud, “You’re gay.”

“Yeah.” Brendon didn’t look so disappointed in himself.

“So in Nancy…” Ryan tilted his head. “Shana? W-what was that?”

Brendon chuckled sharply. “That’s what comes to mind? You find out I’m gay and you think of Nancy? Yeah, there was no ‘Shana.’ His name was Shane.”

Brendon had sex in Nancy with a man. All those bruises up his neck that night he came back. That wasn’t a dame’s work. That was a fella’s. Ryan stared. And he felt the need to blurt out, “Jac wasn’t real.”

Brendon scrunched up his nose. “Jac?”

“I never slept with a girl in France. Ever,” Ryan admitted. He didn't let his eyes linger from Brendon. “I lied about it.”

Brendon’s eyes instantly went massive and his mouth dropped open slightly. “You… you _what_?”

“I never slept with any girls in France. Not once. Z mattered too much to me.” _You mattered too much to me._ “I never felt the need.”

Brendon stared on. Black eyes tinged red the size of saucers. Tiny moons in their own skies.

“That’s the only thing I’ve ever lied to you about,” Ryan continued. “That’s it. I swear.”

“I’m gay,” Brendon said and he didn’t break eye contact with Ryan. “And I slept with men in France and I sing at a gay bar called The Church. And I don’t have girl problems. I have boy problems because I keep kissing the wrong people. That’s all I’ve lied to you about.” 

“So we’re _both_ liars, technically,” Ryan amended, sounding hopeful. He swayed forward a bit on his heels and smiled at Brendon a little broader.

“Ryan—” Brendon laughed. The sound was real. Ryan loved that laugh. “I think I win in this competition—not that it is one. I’m a liar, I really am.”

“Yeah but I am too,” Ryan protested. He wanted Brendon to keep laughing. 

“Why do you want to be one?” Brendon smiled at him weakly. The tears were drying from his face. 

“Trying to make you feel less guilty,” Ryan answered and Brendon laughed again. That sweet sound. Brendon’s laugh sounded like home. “Can I ask another thing? If we’re putting all this out there.”

“Anything.” Brendon was smiling at him, shiny and full-lipped and one eye squinted more than the other. He was beautiful and attracted to men and Ryan was still very much in love with him. 

Ryan pointed at him. “You slept with me.”

Brendon’s smile faltered and he glanced away. Guilt. So gay or not, he regretted that.

Ryan cocked his head. He had to know. “Why?”

“You were screaming bloody murder, Ryan,” Brendon replied. Reluctance. “What was I supposed to do? Let you go on like that?”

Ryan blinked, confounded. “What?”

“You have nightmares like crazy,” Brendon spoke up and why did he sound so sad for Ryan? Why was he looking at him like that? “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Ryan stared on. He knew he had nightmares but—He didn’t remember that night at all. He usually didn’t remember his sleep. Never the actual dreams. Mostly just the pit in his stomach that stayed there when he woke up. So he had been having a nightmare—one of many—and Brendon had tried to calm him down. That’s why Brendon got into bed with him.

That wasn’t Brendon’s problem. Ryan wasn’t Brendon’s problem.

“Why did you stay?” Ryan asked despite himself. His voice was meek. He sounded extremely pathetic. But Brendon answered him anyway. No matter how pathetic Ryan sounded, Brendon always answered. 

Brendon had his eyebrows angled up, his mouth turned into a downhearted frown. He said it like it was so simple, “You asked me to.”

And suddenly there was a fraction of Ryan’s brain that lit up. That remembered the feeling of arms around him, of Brendon’s voice low and soothing. Hands rubbing his cold skin. And he remembered his own voice, ‘stay’ and Brendon’s hurt reply ‘of course.’

Ryan’s whiskey eyes held Brendon there in the middle of the apartment. Brendon’s tears were dried on his face but he continued to hold onto himself, staring back at Ryan with those evil, imploring black eyes. He didn’t look so sick with the sweat, he only looked unsure. It didn’t make him glow any less though in the light of the apartment. His lips were parted in a pout, his face was worried. Worried what Ryan might say. 

He looked at Ryan like he mattered and for that, Ryan loved him even more. 

And the answer was just so plainly apparent. So obvious, what Ryan needed to do.

“You can punch me for this if you want,” he said gently, a breath, walking towards Brendon across the room. 

It was a bad idea. Very bad and Brendon would probably be extremely pissed but it made _sense_. It all made sense to Ryan what the universe expected of him. 

Sometimes there were right moments. Sometimes the world went, ‘excuse me, here’s your path. Follow it.’ And Ryan had found it. The path that was marked for him and at the end of it was Brendon Urie’s imploring eyes and feminine features and hitching laugh and squinting eyes. Ryan knew what he was expected to do. 

Brendon made a confused face as Ryan approached him, reaching him in three long strides. “ _Punch_ you? Why would I—”

Ryan cut him off with his mouth, taking Brendon by the forearm to pull him in. 

He kissed Brendon—velvety, no barrier—on the mouth. On those feminine lips that Ryan blamed all of this attraction on. Pressed his own grey lips to Brendon’s, smooth, and they slotted together at an angle, Ryan tilting his head to the side. 

There was a split second where he thought he’d done the wrong thing. 

A second when Brendon’s body jerked in surprise, almost pulling away from Ryan as he stiffened. A moment when Ryan realized his mistake and started to back away but then Brendon reached out to snag him by the shoulder, tugged them together firmly, leaning forward in reply. 

Brendon clutched to his shoulder, gripping onto one of his suspenders to keep Ryan against him, mouths connecting them, and Ryan’s hand on his forearm. His other hand instinctively moved to Brendon’s waist like when he would kiss Z. 

Brendon wasn’t shaped like her, not curved or subtle. Brendon was firm beneath his touch and his skin didn’t dip in a way for Ryan to rest his hand. Instead, Ryan moved his hand to Brendon’s hip and held on, his hand resting on Brendon’s belt and the tips of his fingers just under the sweater Brendon was wearing. 

Brendon tasted like cigarettes. Like smoke and ash, provactive and high. 

Brendon’s skin was hot, fire hot against Ryan’s fingers and once again—because of Brendon—Ryan Ross was burning. 

His heart was thumping erratically and he was sweating and hanging onto Brendon’s arm and hip like it was a necessity. Like if maybe he let go, he wouldn’t get him back again. 

And Brendon, much to Ryan’s surprise, held him back the same way. Held one of Ryan’s suspenders in his fist and his other hand latched onto the back of Ryan’s head, knotting his fingers into the curls that hung there. Brendon’s fingers tugged at the hair harshly and Ryan let out a small noise of surprise, parting his mouth with the sound. 

Brendon took that as a new form of invitation, parting his own mouth and he pushed forward into Ryan—bodies wedging together—kissing him earnestly. Ryan staggered back and Brendon went with him, tripping over one another’s feet as they refused to part when they stumbled. 

Ryan never kissed someone like this. Not even Z. No one had answered his kiss with such a demand. A demand to be closer; to hold him tighter against them. And Ryan didn’t care. It was Brendon Urie he was kissing, how could he? 

Ryan had posed the question, timidly and unsure, and Brendon had answered with so much certainty. So much said just by how his lips and his hands replied, forceful against Ryan’s own and desperate with the touch.

Brendon's taste—ash and dust—enveloped Ryan, folded around him like a smoke cloud. Ryan knew smoke could kill a man if they breathed enough of it in, but it didn't matter. He was sucking in as many gasps of that intoxicating, bitter taste as he could. 

He didn't care if he died or not. Death didn't matter when it came to kissing Brendon Urie. That smoke, that war taste. God, he couldn't get enough of it. 

He breathed Brendon in like the drug he was—like he was the last bit of air Ryan would ever hope to have. It didn't matter if it was toxic or not. 

He needed the hit. 


	26. Fuck, Are You Even Trying?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 26 on the 26th. Sorry, this took so long. Gray (my computer) keeps overheating to the point where it burns my fingers when I type so I keep having to write in intervals of like an hour and then take a break. That being said, here it is. Enjoy! And I hope the next one will be out sooner.

Brendon Urie didn’t cry very often. At least not in front of anyone. 

It was one of those habits he prided himself on; even though his father had told him not to pride himself on anything. A man shouldn't pride himself. Made for a bad ego. A man needed to realize that he wasn't any sort of gift to the world. The world would never want him. And Boyd Urie was right. What sort of world wanted Brendon Urie? 

Crying—in any form—was the sort of thing a man wasn’t supposed to do. Crying was a weak attribute and any man that cried in the presence of others was asking to get his ass handed to him. And if Brendon ever did cry in front of someone—only several occasions that he could remember—it was never very beneficial to him. An invitation to get annihilated.

The first time he remembered crying in front of anyone was because, when he was eight, the family dog—who was black and white and named Penny—had managed to escape the backyard and vanish into the nature the rest of Utah had to offer her. 

What else was he expected to do? He couldn’t find her; he didn’t know where to look. The only idea he could come up with was to sit in the backyard and cry. Sit in the wet grass with his legs crossed and let out hiccuping sobs that only a little boy who lost his dog could cry. 

He remembered that his older brother, Matt, had come out of the house with a clattering of the screen door to walk down the steps and sit down beside him. 

The grass was wet with dew and Brendon’s pants were damp on the undersides, unpleasant and hugging the back of his thighs with moistness. He was sitting criss-cross with his hands in his lap. He was eight years old and he was crying because his dog ran away. He was allowed to.

And his big brother Matt—who was fifteen at the time—sat next to him and let out a hefty sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He looked nothing but aggravated by Brendon's hiccuping sobs. 

Matt had a similar physicality to Brendon in certain ways. Dark hair and dark eyes and dimples when he smiled. All the Urie siblings had those black, button eyes in common. Matt’s were always shiny and he smiled quite a bit. Not usually directed at Brendon, though. 

“What’re you crying for?” Matt had asked after he was quiet for a moment. 

The wind rustled leaves around them and he directed his eyes away from Brendon and to the several trees in their backyard. It was a small yard, cramped like most of the Urie house was. No wonder Penny ran away. Anywhere else would have been a better place to be.

Matt sounded bored. He always sounded bored when he talked to Brendon. Brendon was too young for him after all. He could never understand the problems Matt had. Not ever. 

Brendon sniveled and all he had been able to choke out was, “Penny.”

“Yep.” Matt nodded with a grunt. He wasn't looking at Brendon. “Right shame.”

And that had been the end of it. Matt didn’t ask any more questions about Penny; about Brendon’s sobs. He only let out one more long breath and patted Brendon on the back carelessly. Too hard to be comforting. 

“Dinner’s almost done,” Matt told him, pushing off his knees as he stood. “Wipe your face, why don’t you? Ma won’t want you crying at the table; don't be a nuisance.”

Brendon had let him leave and wiped at his face. Sat out in the cramped backyard of the Urie house for nearly an hour, trying to get a hold of himself. No one wanted a crying little boy at their dinner table. 

By the time he finally came in, tears dried and his head hurting, his family had cleared everything away and Brendon went to bed hungry and shaky. 

He didn’t remember crying after that until many years later when he was seventeen years old. There were a lot of reasons why he cried when he was seventeen, every one of them his fault. He was an idiot after all when he was seventeen. Plain dumb. 

All his siblings were out of the house; all living their own lives but Kyla—his sister who was twenty-two at the time. He got the feeling she hated her life. He didn’t blame her. He wanted out too. Envied Penny for getting out when she did.

Brendon's mother, Grace, was out Brendon's father on a date night. One of the rare occasions Kyla and Brendon had the house to themselves. And Kyla—who looked the least like Brendon with her short blonde hair—had thought this to be the perfect opportunity to go out as well with her boyfriend. Brendon didn't remember what his name had been. He wondered if they ever got married. He left St. George for Clearfield fairly soon after they started dating. Around a year. Was that enough time to propose? He never found out. 

He hoped that Kyla was married. Kara was and Mason was and Matt was too. Or, well, Matt had been dating the same girl long enough to be considered married. Brendon was the only one not promising his parents a plethora of grandchildren. He was the black sheep. 

He wondered if his parents would want to hear from him even if he wasn't married. Perhaps he could call them up and—after the whole shock of him being alive—they could ask him, 'oh and any dame to speak of, Brendon dear? A fiancée maybe?' and Brendon could laugh in their faces and say, 'No, no, thank you for asking though. I've actually involved in a homosexual relationship with my best friend, Dallon. You don't know him. He lives in Clearfield you know and he works at a gay bar. You'd like him though. He took me to church a few times. Well, we still go to church now. Just a different kind. And, meanwhile—this is funny—I'm tragically in love with my other best friend who I went to France with! Also of the male gender. Isn't that great?' 

Maybe not the best idea if he wanted to keep his head.

When he was seventeen and everyone was gone, even Kyla, Brendon was free to roam the house alone. Free to invite that boy from school—his name had been Josh, Brendon remembered—to come over. Brendon had been reasonably certain of his sexuality by the time he was seventeen. Seventeen years was a long time to figure oneself out. Not that he knew the full truth. But he knew that he didn’t like girls. ‘Reasonably certain’ meaning he had kissed boys a handful of times and they kissed better than every girl he ever had. And he had at least entered about every less-than-straight bar in St. George. 

When Brendon was seventeen, he knew his way around the homosexual community of St. George well enough to know that he wasn’t straight.

And he had seen the way Josh had looked at him; seen the way a lot of people looked at him really. Brendon, when he was seventeen, wasn’t exactly well-versed in discretion. And maybe part of him wanted to get caught when he kissed Josh in the middle of his own house on a Saturday afternoon when the sun was up and the window open to let air in. 

And he had been. Caught. 

Although he hadn’t been expecting to be discovered by Mason Urie of all people, his eldest sibling. He had expected Kyla, who he was close enough to that they could have a reasonable discussion about it. He could tell her about boys' appeal and she could tell him she loved him. That it didn’t matter. It would all be alright. That's what he had wanted to hear.

He hadn’t expected Mason Urie to come lumbering through the front door with a suitcase in hand. Mason who was twenty-seven years old and married to a woman—had been for three years—and decided to drop in to pay the folks a visit for the weekend. 

He remembered hearing the door open. Hearing a greeting cut off abruptly in surprise and the clatter of a wooden briefcase on the floor as his older brother said in a booming voice, “Oh, God. Oh, _God_.” 

That was all Mason had said for a good half hour afterward he walked in the door. Even after Josh had fled the house at a run. Brendon hadn't tried to call him again. Which was a real shame. Josh had been a good kisser. Whatever happened to Josh Dun? He was a sweet boy and Brendon never really thought of him as being gay. He was probably married now to some beautiful girl who tied his tie for him in the morning. 

Mason had said ‘Oh God’ so many times the words eventually lost all meaning. Brendon didn’t understand why that was the selected phrase. As if God had anything to do with it. 

Brendon remembered standing from the couch after Josh had fled, Mason and he in a living room with no lights on, two feet away from a couch Brendon had just been necking on with the window open to let the sunshine in and the cool breeze. 

“Mason,” he had said, raising his hands palm up in surrender. He hadn’t thought this out. Didn’t have a single plan. He wished to the God Mason kept begging that he did. “Mason, c’mon. Mason, this isn’t what you think it is. I’m not—”

“You’re a fucking faggot is what you are,” Mason hissed.

That’s what broke the ‘oh God’ spell. 'You’re a fucking faggot,' his brother had said to him. And that hurt. That hurt worse than a lot of things did. 

Brendon remembered slacking. Seventeen years of age and that was the first time someone had said that word to him in that way. Looked him in the eyes, disgust, and said it. 

The word didn’t mean anything. The word didn’t mean a thing at all. Sometimes words are just words. What meant something was the way Mason looked at him, hair flopping over his eyes where he had pulled it loose from the gel when he shook his head. The way black button eyes that he and Brendon had in common flashed with nothing but resentment. 

That meant something. 

Brendon remembered that entire weekend after that god-awful encounter. The way Mason hadn’t said a single word to him after that. Hadn’t made eye contact with him during dinner or when he passed him in the living room. He had only stayed through Sunday. Brendon never found out why. What Mason had been doing there in the first place. What he had been doing there without his wife. 

But he did remember that Sunday night before Mason left town when Brendon lay awake in bed and stared at his white ceiling thinking, _you_ are _a faggot, aren’t you?_

Brendon cried that night when he was seventeen. Not sad tears by any means. Angry ones. Angry tears that slipped hot down his cheeks and he had to cover his face and dig at his eyes with fists, trying to will the hot tears away. He didn’t understand why he was crying. But he couldn’t keep the tears back. Messy and irritating across his skin. He cursed his eyes for leaking the way they did. He didn't want them too.

Even when Mason appeared in his bedroom that night, arms folded and eyes trained on Brendon, he hadn’t managed to quit crying. Hadn’t been able to force the tears back into his eyes even when he held his breath.

“Everyone else is asleep,” Mason said from the door frame. 

Brendon rested an arm over his eyes, trying to will the tremors to cease from his body. His voice came out strangled and weak. “Okay.”

“And I—” Mason stopped, realizing the hitch in Brendon’s voice and he asked, awkward, “A-are you crying?”

Brendon shook his head and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. Maybe if he pushed hard enough he could ram the tears back into his skull. Pesky things, tears. Why wouldn’t they stop falling?

“Brendon,” Mason reiterated and his voice had gone quieter. Gentler. Not as it had been before he saw Brendon kissing a boy. Not like when Brendon was young and Mason had to play father some days. Nothing was like it had been. But there was an edge. Guilt or pity, Brendon couldn’t identify. And then the softness was gone as Mason said, harder, “Stop crying.”

Brendon wiped a hand down his face and held it at his throat for a second over his jugular. He whispered, “You hate me, don’t you?”

“No. I don’t hate you,” Mason sighed out but he hadn’t sounded very convincing. “I hate that—How did this happen, Brendon?”

Brendon sat up in his bed, tucking his knees to his chest and arms around them. Mason shut the door with a small click behind him and he stood in the dark against Brendon’s door, holding one hand on the doorknob in case he needed to make a quick escape. 

Since Matt moved out Brendon had the room to himself. He barely remembered a time before he slept alone. 

“How did you… Who…?” Mason shook his head and he shifted from one foot to the other. “Who was that boy that you were—?” 

He cut himself off before he could say 'kiss'. 

“A friend,” Brendon answered, wiping at his nose with a sleeve. “From school.”

“Has this sort of thing…” Mason glanced down. “Has this happened before?”

Brendon focused his eyes on his knees. “Not with him.”

Mason shot his eyes up and there was a sort of anger there. As if Brendon had betrayed him. “You’re a faggot then, aren’t you? A _real_ faggot.”

Brendon hugged his knees tighter. He shrugged stiffly. “Pretty much, yeah. I guess.”

“When did…?” Mason trailed off. "When did this happen?" 

“Forever ago, Mason,” Brendon muttered. “I’ve known forever. It’s been forever.”

“Are you—” Mason coughed into his fist. He didn’t make eye contact with Brendon when he asked, “Is it just kissing? Maybe we can… You could see someone. We could get you help.”

“I don’t need help,” Brendon whispered. He didn’t want to look at Mason. See the scorn in his eyes. 

“Yes you do, Brendon.” Mason shook his head. He was acting as if he'd failed somehow as a brother. Mason couldn't have stopped Brendon from being gay. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone. Brendon was gay. That's just how it was. “You’re sick. That’s all this is. You’re just sick. We can get you medication or we can—”

“I don’t have the flu, Mason,” Brendon snapped, glancing up. “I’m not _sick_.”

“Is it just kissing?” Mason demanded, more desperate. Brendon didn’t know why he had to ask. It wasn’t his business. Who Brendon kissed. Who he screwed. It wasn’t any of his brother’s goddamn business. 

“I’m not answering that.” But that was answer enough. 

“ _Fuck_ , Brendon,” Mason hissed. That was the first time his brother cussed. He ran an unsteady hand over his mouth. He was staring at Brendon, appalled. “Fuck.”

Brendon swallowed. He said, honestly for the first time out loud, “I’m gay.”

“Don’t say that; no you’re not,” Mason insisted harshly. He shook his head again and again, wiping his mouth with both hands, hovering his fingers over his lips. “You’re struggling s’all. It’s been rough. It’s a rough time, I know it is. For all of us. Mom and Dad don’t have any goddamn money right now and—I know. I know that it’s sort of like we don’t have anything right now; I know, Brendon. But you can’t—How could you do this? Do you even care about them?”

“Of _course_ I care.” Brendon’s heart hurt at the accusation. He cared a hell of a lot about his family. He did. He just didn’t get the impression they gave a damn about him. 

“Then why would you do this?” Mason begged.

Brendon scoffed in the back of his throat. “I didn’t decide to be this.”

“But you decided to act on it.” Mason pointed a finger. “You made a choice, Brendon. You made a _choice_.”

No, he didn’t. If Brendon could make a choice, he would have chosen to be normal. He would have chosen to like girls and their soft features and curves. If Brendon could choose, he wouldn’t have decided to like boys. He wouldn’t have made a decision to make his life a hundred times harder than it needed to be. Who would choose that?

There was a pause as Mason took in a shuddering breath. He kept his voice low. “Does anyone else know?”

Brendon dipped his head. “You.”

“How many boys?” Mason sounded disappointed. So disappointed in his little brother. 

“Not so many,” Brendon mumbled, picking at the fabric of his pajama pants. “A dozen maybe.”

“A _dozen_?” Mason was distraught. He was disgusted and distraught and he hated Brendon. “And how many of those… how many have you…?”

Brendon knew what he was asking. “Five.”

“ _Five_?” Hatred. “You’re _seventeen_ , Brendon; where do you even—”

“I get around,” Brendon countered. 

Mason pressed fingers into his eye sockets and rubbed for a minute. Similar to how Brendon had when he tried to make himself stop crying. He looked far too old in the darkness of Brendon’s bedroom, a shadow of rugged stubble over his face and bags beneath his eyes. His hair was graying at the roots and he looked like perhaps he had lost weight. Granted, he was pretty old. Twenty-seven. Practically ancient. Brendon kept wondering why his wife hadn’t come to town. 

“You hate me,” Brendon stated. It was a fact. That’s just what it was. 

“I don’t ha—” Mason exhaled sharply, hanging his head. “I have to leave soon. I should… I should be sleeping; I have to get up early to catch the train home.”

“Are you leaving in the morning?” Brendon asked. Would they ever get a chance to talk more about this? Surely Mason wasn't going to leave him like this? He wasn't going to accuse Brendon and say terrible, horrible things to him and then _leave_. A brother didn't do that.

“I’m not staying around, that’s for sure.” Mason made a move for the door. 

Brendon leaned forward, saying hurriedly, worried, “You’re not going to… tell them… are you?”

Mason bobbed his head. Shook it. Brendon didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. “No. No, of course I’m not. I don’t like being the bearer of bad news, Brendon. Makes my head hurt.” He sent a glance back at his little brother, sitting on his bed in the darkness, the tears not yet dried from his face. “Go to sleep, Brendon. And wipe your eyes, huh? Just cause you’re a pansy doesn’t mean you have to cry about it.”

Brendon lay back into bed. It had taken him some time after the door closed but eventually, he had fallen asleep. When he woke up to find Mason gone the next morning, his mother said his older brother hadn’t wanted to wake him. That Mason told her they exchanged good-byes the night before. 

When the angry tears came back hot and irritating behind his eyelids, Brendon had excused himself from the breakfast table and sat on the toilet seat in the bathroom. 

He hadn’t talked to Mason since. 

And he hadn’t cried in front of anyone either since then. Which was why Christmas of ‘44 was such a jarring experience. Such an odd one. Brendon didn’t cry in front of people. That’s why he had left the tent, left the merriment of the holidays to people that could actually enjoy it and had hidden away at one of the destroyed houses nearby. 

Bombs did a real number on sleepy villages, didn’t they? Woke everybody up. A real inconvenience.

He sat under the ruined roof of that destroyed house and tried to get his cigarette lit. The rain washed it out every time he tried and after a few unsuccessful attempts, he gave up and let it hang from his fingers between his legs. His hair pressed to his face and rain ran down his body, beneath his clothes and across his skin. Cold and hateful. He didn't mind. His tears matched in harmony.

He sat there in the rain, drenched from head to toe, for a good half hour before none other than Ryan Ross decided to join him. Before Ryan Ross came clambering over the mud and upturned roots, bending over so he could join Brendon. He hadn't mentioned Brendon's red eyes. What was that boy trying to prove? Brendon always wondered those days. Back when Ryan was the guy in his squadron who stole baby bibles and had the nerve to be disgusted when Dan Pawlovich ripped teeth from heads. It was a corpse. Not like it was going to be offended. 

Ryan Ross wasn’t even religious but he was a bible thumper. He was one of those guys with a moral. What was the moral of war? Brendon didn’t really know. Ryan Ross was stupid for trying to find one.

What did Ryan Ross have to gain from passing over a dry cigarette and trying to joke Brendon into going back with him to camp? Offering him warmth and a smoke. Why did Ryan Ross care so much? 

Brendon had never known. 

Until now. Now he did. Somewhat, anyhow. 

Brendon Urie had cried a whopping four times in front of other people. Once in front of Matt because he didn’t have a dog anymore. Once in front of Mason because he was a faggot. And they had said similar things. 

'Wash your face. No one wants to see your tears'. 

Ryan Ross had watched him cry the other two. But he hadn’t said that or anything similar. He hadn’t told Brendon to hide his face or get his tears under control. He had passed Brendon a dry cigarette when they sat in the rain on Christmas in France under a crumpled house. He had slowed his pace on a street in Clearfield and walked beside Brendon back to the apartment after he found out the secret Brendon never wanted him to.

Ryan walked beside him even though he knew Brendon was gay. Ryan _knew_. That was all Brendon had been able to repeat in his head as they walked. _Ryan knows. He knows._

And he hadn’t meant to cry. But Ryan had looked at him—and it wasn’t that soft smile that Brendon had grown accustomed to; wasn’t those shatter-me whiskey eyes that darted away nervously when someone looked too long—it was anger and it was pain. And it had occurred to Brendon that there wasn’t anything he could do to get himself out of this mess. He'd fucked up. And he'd fucked up bad. Bad to the point where he didn't know if he could fix it.

Crying wasn’t what he wanted to do; it definitely wasn't going to help anything. He didn’t make an active choice to cry. And still, he did. He had walked alongside Ryan Ross on a street in Clearfield—the world dark around them, casting a heavy shadow over them and their selfish problems—and Brendon had covered his eyes for the fourth time in his life so someone wouldn’t see the tears that leaked from them. 

He couldn’t imagine what Ryan would think of him if he saw him crying. _He really is a pansy. He’s fucking crying and I've barely said shit to him yet_. Brendon wasn’t a fairy. He wasn’t pathetic. He was afraid.

But Ryan had seen, despite how Brendon tried to cover it. Ryan had seen him cry and he hadn’t told him to quit. Hadn’t told him a man shouldn’t cry; that he was pathetic for feeling something. Ryan had said they would talk about it when they made it back to the apartment. Had walked beside him back to the apartment. And once there, Ryan had asked him, ‘did you think I’d hate you?’ 

Of course Brendon did. Mason had. 

But Ryan Ross had looked him in the eyes and said back, ‘I could never _hate_ you.’ And Brendon’s heart had floated somewhere else entirely. Out of his body and to a place he didn’t know. Nowhere. 

Ryan hadn’t told him to clean his face. Hadn’t tried to get him to feel something different. Ryan had done nothing but indulged him. Let him cry. Offered to be the shoulder that took the hit. Didn’t yell at him. He stood in front of Brendon’s door with his arms folded and stared, brow furrowed. He tried to lighten the mood with small jokes said in an uneven, quiet voice. 

Ryan cared for him; Brendon could tell. Well and truly and honestly, he did. Which was more than a lot of people had done for Brendon. Ryan Ross was just too goddamn good. What the hell was his problem, being that small and broken? So awkward when he smiled. So nervous and sweet. He was begging someone to take a hammer to him. Begging the world to destroy him. How did he do that? How did he manage?

The bruises on his face were healing but they still burned an ugly yellow across his face. It didn’t do anything to make him less attractive though. He was a good looking fellow, Ryan Ross. All sharp curves of his jutting hip bones and ribs beneath his shirt. His suspenders gripped his frame and Brendon had to thank whoever invented suspenders. As if they had been specifically designed for Ryan Ross’s skinny frame. He had a young face with gentle features, his nose was rounded, and his lips were nothing if not kissable. 

Two times Brendon had cried in front of him and neither time had Ryan told him to stop. Both times he had comforted. Made it known how good he was. Ryan needed to stop showing his kindness off. It was getting redundant. 

And to make everything even more complicated, Ryan went and kissed him. Ryan Ross _kissed_ him. Something Brendon hadn’t even remotely considered. Even when Ryan had looked at him through nervous, half-lidded eyes that shimmered like whiskey in a glass and said, “You can punch me for this if you want.”

Brendon hadn’t even seen it as a possibility. Why should he? Ryan was straight. It hadn’t crossed his mind even when Ryan made it within a few inches of his face. Ryan Ross would never. Never kiss him. 

But he had. He did. 

And at first, when Ryan kissed him, Brendon hadn’t thought it was real. It was all so out there. So unlikely. All too perfect to be real. 

There had been a moment when Ryan’s grey lips first connected with his when Brendon nearly pushed him away. He hadn’t known what else to do; hadn’t planned it happening that way. He raised his hands between their chests, fully intending to push the other man away. And Ryan had realized that. Had backed down almost instantly. Taken half a step backward and their lips disconnected a centimeter. 

It was all Brendon had needed for it to hit him. 

The fact that he might never get to do it again—never get to feel Ryan Ross’s lips on his own—and it was all that had been on his mind for the past week so he pressed back. To see if it was as good as he imagined. Grabbed Ryan a little too roughly by the suspenders—a little too desperately if he was being honest—and forced their mouths together again. 

He kissed Ryan back. 

Their faces went together, their bodies too, and their noses bumped ungracefully. Brendon didn’t break away though. He took the most of the opportunity, using Ryan’s suspender to hold the two of them against one another. He reached around Ryan’s head to clutch a handful of his hair. Attempted to will Ryan into a new position by tugging on the curls. Harder than he thought apparently because Ryan gasped into Brendon’s mouth and Brendon had nearly lost it then and there, pressing deeper into the kiss. 

With the impact that their bodies made when Brendon crushed them into a new arrangment, Ryan stumbled backward and Brendon—unwilling to separate—backed him towards the door of his apartment. 

Ryan had his hand on Brendon’s hip bone. His fingers were beneath Brendon’s shirt, resting on a bare strip of skin and that alone was sending Brendon’s body extremely mixed signals. One signal was, _this is wrong. Dallon’s in love with you, Brendon. You’re breaking his fucking heart right now. You’re destroying him, Brendon. Back away._

But the other part of his brain—the animalistic part that kept listening to the way Ryan was breathing and the feel of his hands on Brendon's hip and arm and the feel of Ryan's lips—was taking that as a new signal to go forth, repeating over and over, _you won’t get to do this again. You won’t. Ryan won’t let you. Get it out now. While you can. While you still have him._

Ryan’s back hit the door to Brendon’s apartment with a small thwak and he let out a muffled grunt against Brendon’s lips. Brendon immediately pulled back, despite what he wanted, his lips tingling and his hands still on Ryan’s suspender strap. In his messy, copper hair that tangled around Brendon’s fingers.

“Shit,” Brendon said and his voice was hoarse. “Are you okay?”

Ryan blinked at him. Quirked his lips to a smile and Brendon could feel his fingertips beneath his shirt, weighing heavy on his skin. Ryan chuckled as he said, “Yeah, I’m alright. How are you?”

Their bodies were barely an inch apart, stomachs resting together as they breathed in pants, and their legs were oddly placed around each other. Brendon wondered what would happen if he pushed Ryan against the wall harder. Maybe he would slide up it. Wrap his legs around Brendon’s waist. He was thin enough to hold; probably light as a feather. Brendon hadn’t ever done that with a guy before but he bet he could. Would Ryan like that?

Dallon could pick him up; he had done it before when Brendon was drunk at The Church. Dallon. What would Dallon say about all of this? _I knew it. I knew how you felt about him, you liar! You lied to me._ He’d be crushed. 

Brendon let his mouth twitch at the corners and the smart part of his brain screamed at him, _you’re destroying him! You’re going to break that boy! Back up! Back up man! Get it together!_

And Ryan laughed again, something of a wheeze, his shatter-me whiskey eyes polished and fuck, Brendon was drowning in whiskey; all the way up to his neck in Ryan Ross. He was drunk on that boy. 

He could feel the pulse of his heart in his neck and his ears and through his wrist. Wondered if Ryan could feel it against the back of his neck where Brendon’s arm was pressed between the wall and his body. 

Ryan’s lips were parted barely as he laughed, tinged red from being kissed, and the bottom one glistened with moisture. The other side of Brendon’s mind went haywire; white noise. _Ryan_ , it said. _Ryan._

And that’s all it needed to. 

Brendon shoved Ryan back and slammed their mouths together again. This time Ryan opened his mouth willingly and his hand went from Brendon’s forearm to his neck. Fingers hot at the base of Brendon's ear and his other hand etched further up under his shirt. 

Was he trying to make Brendon lose his mind?

Ryan’s tongue tasted like sugar against Brendon's own. He had planned it. He must have. There was no way Ryan naturally tasted that sweet. That addicting. Like coffee filled with sugar from Joe’s and Brendon was a sucker for sugar. A sucker for the sweet mouth against his and the hot press of fingertips to his bare skin beneath his sweater.

“I’m good, by the way,” Brendon said against Ryan’s mouth as he parted for a gulping breath of air. 

“Oh, right.” Ryan laughed again and pressed his head back against the wall, looking up at Brendon's ceiling. Brendon didn't know quite what he was looking for. “Good. Good. That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Brendon didn’t make a conscious decision to kiss Ryan’s jugular the same way he didn’t think to cry. He just did. Let his body make up his mind for him and touch his lips to Ryan’s exposed skin. He asked, curious as he dragged his mouth up Ryan’s sensitive throat. “Are you ticklish?”

“I’m not telling you,” Ryan answered, fidgeting beneath Brendon. His voice was hushed and when he breathed his chest heaved against Brendon’s own. 

Brendon pulled back to see Ryan fully. Eyes closed and neck stretched out as he rested his head against the door, copper hair a golden crown behind him. His throat kept bobbing when he swallowed. You had to be trying to look the way Ryan did right then. 

“Fuck,” Brendon said for the second time that night. Just as breathless. But for a different reason. “Ryan.”

Ryan tilted his head down, fluttering his eyes open, and he smiled in a type of trance. Wet his lips that were already damp with Brendon’s saliva. He had to be trying.

“You taste like sugar,” Brendon breathed because it seemed the thing to say. His brain couldn’t think of anything else. Couldn’t focus on anything other than the way Ryan’s tongue tasted in his mouth. His very own dixie boy. 

Ryan’s grin widened and for once he didn’t duck out of Brendon’s gaze as he said in response, “You smoke a lot.”

“I do,” Brendon answered. He flashed a crooked smile. “Is it alright?”

“It’s good; I like it,” Ryan said and he looked from Brendon’s eyes to his lips and back up. Fuck. He was trying. He had to be. 

Brendon was mostly glad Ryan had said that. He worried the smoke would be too strong. Tasting like smoke had been the first thing he thought of when he kissed Dallon in the closet for the first time. Worried it was overpowering. 

_Dallon_. Kissing Dallon in the closet. Kissing Dallon in a stairwell outside of his apartment and in a closet in a gay bar and then at Dallon’s house those few times and at The Church in front of Eric and Jon. 

Brendon’s smile fell and he stared at Ryan. The thought was steadily becoming real as his heart rate slowed down. As the heat of the moment drooled out of him. Reality. Dallon. Oh, what had he gotten himself into?

He stepped back abruptly, letting go of Ryan entirely, the heat vanishing from his skin. Ryan’s hands disappeared from him as Brendon retracted himself from the embrace. Ryan stayed with his back glued to the door. He blinked at Brendon in mild surprise. 

“What?” he asked, forehead creasing into genuine worry at Brendon’s detachment. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no it's that—” Brendon shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He pressed his fingers into his eye sockets. Dallon was in love with him. Dallon was his best friend and he wanted a future with him and he was in love with him and Brendon knew that and he still kissed Ryan Ross. Ryan fucking Ross who he told Dallon there was nothing going on with. He was such a fucking liar, God help him. Why did anyone trust him? Why did Ryan and Dallon care about him when he kept doing things like this?

“I’m such an idiot. I’m such an idiot.” He held a hand over his eyes. 

“What?” Ryan sounded a mixture of stressed and confused as he took a step off the wall, reaching out for Brendon with a hand. “No, you’re not.”

Brendon took a step away. 

He couldn’t have Ryan touch him again. He wouldn’t be able to resist and he knew that. Ryan’s sugary taste lingered in his mouth and the ghost of his fingertips made his side itch. He glanced up at Ryan, who was staring at him worriedly. 

Brendon asked, distressed, “Why did you do that? Why did you kiss me?” 

“You kissed me back,” Ryan retorted, bewildered, dropping his hand back to his side. His eyes had widened and he sounded hurt. Brendon hadn’t hurt him, had he? Not again. He hadn’t meant to. 

“Yeah but—” Brendon swallowed. “I didn’t—Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” Ryan pressed. 

_Oh, so many things, Ryan; you have no idea. So_ so _many fucking things_. Brendon rubbed at his face. He bet he looked like Mason that day in his bedroom. Shaky hands running over his mouth and down his chin. He hoped he didn't look as old. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—Why did you do that?”

“Because I wanted to,” Ryan replied honestly, hanging his arms at his side. 

That was so scarily close to what Dallon had said in the closet. Too close. Brendon was getting a killer headache. He rubbed his fingers at his temple. It was different in a way though, how Ryan said those words. Dallon had said it so defensively. So surprised that Brendon was questioning him. But Ryan? Ryan said it so hopelessly. As if pleading for Brendon’s approval that that was the right answer. Brendon wished he knew what the right answer was. 

“Because I—” Ryan tried to form it into words. “Because you’re—You mean a lot to me too, Brendon. You mean the world, you do, and I wanted to kiss you. Because—”

“You can’t say shit like that Ryan,” Brendon interrupted him in a small hiss, running both his hands back through his sweaty hair to keep it against his scalp. 

“Why not?” Ryan asked, squinting his eyes in offense. 

“I’m—” Brendon gaped a second like a fish on dry land. He felt guilty again. Like a liar for a whole new reason. “I’m involved… with someone, Ryan. Romantically. I think. And kissing you—You’re not supposed to kiss other people when you’re involved, are you?”

Ryan reeled back as if he’d been struck. “Involved? What? What do you mean you think? How do you _think_ that sort of thing?”

“We kiss but I don’t—He loves me, is what I mean. He loves me. And I—He means a lot to me too, Ryan. You remember when I mentioned that girl this morning? It’s not a girl, Ryan. It’s a boy.” He stared at Ryan and didn’t take his hands out of his hair. Ryan still had his arms hanging limp at his sides and he was staring at Brendon with shock radiating from his person. “It’s Dallon.”

Ryan took a slow blink. A slow breath. He repeated, “Weekes?”

“I don’t know many others.”

“You’re…” Ryan made a choking sound. “You’re dating Dallon?”

“Fags don’t date,” Brendon replied. That was the truth. Fags didn’t date. They kissed and sometimes they screwed and every now and then there was that odd couple that pretended to be roommates and risked getting arrested or killed. But fags certainly didn’t _date_. Didn't have the luxury. 

“But you fuck him,” Ryan said, emotionless.

It was Brendon’s turn to flinch back. People needed to stop saying that to him. It sounded dirty coming from Ryan’s mouth that was still glimmering with Brendon’s spit. Ryan’s tongue that was still fresh on Brendon’s mind. He said it so blankly as he didn’t take his eyes off Brendon. Burning whiskey.

Brendon took in a sharp breath. “No.”

Ryan shrugged. “So he fucks you then.”

People needed to stop saying shit like that. Brendon was getting pretty goddamn sick of it.

“Yes. Yes, Ryan,” Brendon snarled, rolling his eyes. “If I slept with Dallon—which I haven’t, for the record—I’d be the one on the bottom. You happy with that knowledge?” 

“No,” Ryan answered, obviously upset. “No, I’m not _happy_ knowing that. I don't care who fucks who.”

"So why did you ask?" Brendon raised his voice. 

"Because I don't know what else to do." Ryan was shaking his head back and forth in disbelief. "I don't know what to do with any of this. I kiss you and you? You kiss me back. But then you say that you're romantically involved? How the hell does that make any sense? Why did you kiss me?" 

Brendon fumbled for words. Ryan had a good point. Ryan had a great point and Brendon didn't have an answer. He couldn't very well say, 'because I'm falling in love with you.' That wouldn't do. So he shrugged and gurgled out a response. "I don't—I shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place. It was—It just happened. I shouldn't have. I should’ve—”

There was a knock on the door and Ryan jumped in surprise, flipping back to it. Brendon raised his head to the sound. Another rapid knock on the wooden frame. Two clicks of the knuckles. A full handed slap. 

_For the love of God._ Brendon needed a serious break. Dallon made a living on bad timing, didn’t he? Surely he made profit with as much as he did it. 

Ryan turned to Brendon. 

“That’s him,” he said as if Brendon didn’t already know that. “That’s your gentleman caller, right there, isn’t it?” 

Brendon blinked, eyes wide. And he regretted his next words the moment they left his mouth, “Are you gonna tell him?”

Ryan huffed out a scoff and turned away. He started to walk away to the bathroom, muttering out without even so much as facing Brendon. He sounded in pain when he spoke, “I’m gonna brush my teeth is what I’m gonna do. My mouth tastes like fucking smoke.”

A sharp shiver went up Brendon’s spine. Disgust with himself. 

The door to the bathroom slammed shut as Brendon opened tugged open the front door to reveal Dallon looking back at him. Dallon's shirt was half untucked and his hair was whipped back with wind and his cheeks were rosy from running and the sweat that beaded on his hairline. He looked like he had sprinted there. Brendon hoped he didn’t look like he had just been kissed. 

“Brendon,” Dallon said instantly before the door was fully open, stepping inside with those long legs of his. “Are you okay?”

Brendon had to take a step back to let him in. He furrowed his brow as he shut the door slowly behind Dallon. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Ryan,” Dallon said, turning around to face Brendon. He appeared frantic. Brendon got the impression he had drunk one too many at The Church that night. His pupils were large. “Jon said he came and you two just ran out and of course I thought—” He turned a full circle. “Where is he?”

“The bathroom.” _Brushing his teeth to get my taste off him._

“And is he—Did you—Does he know that—” Dallon gestured frantically between Brendon and him. Brendon didn’t like that. He didn’t like his sexuality being tied to Dallon. He was gay far before the two of them started kissing in closets. 

Brendon nodded and wrapped his arms around his middle, hugging himself. He chewed on the inside of his lips. “He knows.”

Dallon let out a sharp breath. “And?”

“And what?”

“Is he… is he upset?” Dallon asked, voice kept between the two of them. 

_I don’t know_ , Brendon wanted to say, _do you usually kiss people when you’re upset with them?_ But instead, he settled for, “No, actually; not as much as you would think. He’s my _friend_ , Dallon. Realizing I’ve been gay doesn’t erase the last three years.”

The bathroom door opened with a creak and Dallon and Brendon both snapped their heads to see Ryan exiting, head hung low like Mason’s had been and eyes directed at the ground. He finally forced them up to Dallon and opened his mouth, pretending like he hadn’t known Dallon was there. 

“Dallon,” he said, far too nicely. “Hi. When'd you get here?”

“Hi… Ryan. Hi. I just got in. How—” Dallon swallowed. He curled and uncurled his fist at his side. “How are you?”

Ryan asked the same question when Brendon and he were kissing. Good. Brendon had been. He had been good. Now he wondered if there was a time when he had ever been worse. There was a lump in Brendon’s throat and a pit in his stomach and he still had a headache. 

“I’m doin’ alright, thanks,” Ryan said and he walked past them to the front door, tugging it open without so much as another word. 

“Where are you going?” Brendon asked, apprehensive, and he took a step after Ryan. 

“On a walk,” Ryan answered sharply. “Or maybe to get a drink. The Church is still open, isn't it? Who knows. I’m playing it by ear.”

“Ryan—” Brendon started, hoping the expression of _please don’t leave_ was obvious enough on his face, but Ryan cut him off, turning back to the hallway.

“I’ll be back soon,” Ryan said. His eyes were dangerous as they stared at Brendon. “Just feels a little cramped in here with so many people. It’s a small apartment, Bren. We can’t all fit, can we?”

Brendon couldn’t think of a good enough response to that so Ryan didn’t say anything else. Not so much as a good-bye as he walked out. 

The door clattered shut behind him. 

So that was the game. Surely it had to be. Ryan _was_ trying. He was trying to make Brendon lose his mind. Trying to get underneath Brendon’s skin and make him feel itchy and confused. Trying to hold him under until he drowned. And he most _definitely_ was trying to break his heart.

Dallon sent Brendon an alarmed expression. “That doesn’t strike me as him taking it well. You don’t think he’ll tell anyone about The Church do you?”

Because that was what mattered. Dallon’s stupid gay bar. Brendon felt like maybe he was shaking. He said, voice bitter, “He won't tell anyone.”

"How do you know?" Dallon asked. 

"Because I do, Dallon," Brendon snapped, turning back to him. "Ryan wouldn't. He wouldn't do that to me." 

Yeah and you thought he wouldn't kiss you either, and yet here we are. 

The backs of Brendon's eyes were starting to sting. Now was not a good time. He was not going to cry. Absolutely not. He needed Dallon out. And he needed it now. He directed his eyes to the floor when he asked, "Dallon, could you leave?" 

“What?” Dallon raised his brows, completely caught off guard. 

“I know that you—that you were worried about me or—I don’t even care, Dallon. I need a minute.” Brendon crossed the room to sit on the couch and set his elbows on his knees. He held a hand to his face. He wasn’t going to cry in front of Dallon Weekes. He wasn’t going to do it. 

“Well, I can—” Dallon started

“Dallon, I need you to leave.” Brendon dug his fingers into his eyes. The world was crumbling beneath his feet. 

Dallon sobered up immediately. Brendon heard his shoes clatter against the wooden floor as he started toward the couch. “Brendon, I think it would be good if you had someone here with you. Especially after—”

“Dallon.” His voice broke when he said, “ _Please_.” 

Dallon stopped. There was a pause and he let out a short breath, looking away. He was next to the couch where Brendon was sitting and Brendon could see his towering form from the corner of his eyes. “Brendon… Okay. You know what? Okay. I’m going to—I’m gonna go home. You know where I am. And you know that you—I’m here for you, Brendon. Really I am.” 

Brendon didn’t say anything when Dallon reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder. He flinched when Dallon squeezed it but nothing more. It was supposed to be a comforting gesture but it only made him feel impure. Dirty and unloyal. Dallon loved him. Dallon really loved him. And Brendon was a liar and, frankly, a bit of a whore. 

“Call if you need anything,” Dallon said quietly. “Don’t hesitate—not for a second—if you need something. I'll be over in a second. You know I will. I'm serious, Brendon.”

Dallon bent over to press a kiss to the top of Brendon's head. Brendon's body went rigid. Dallon was good. Dallon was perfect. Why didn't Brendon love him? Why did Ryan have to kiss him? Why did Brendon have to like him so much? Why did he have to miss the taste of sugar on his tongue? 

Dallon’s shoes retreated over the floorboards again. Brendon heard the door open and close for the fourth time that night. 

He was alone. And he didn’t try to cry. He just did. 

But at least no one was around to see.


	27. Live and Die and Laugh in the Meantime

Ryan was telling the truth when he left; he really was playing it by ear. 

He didn’t walk out of Brendon’s apartment with a set end goal—or any plan at all, actually—in mind. All he knew for certain was that he had to get out. Out of the apartment and out of Brendon’s presence as soon as humanly possible. He was not going to stand around in a tiny room that consisted of only a sofa and a coffee table with Brendon Urie and Dallon Weekes. Not after what he knew. 

Dallon and Brendon were… Fags don’t date, Brendon had said. And they weren’t screwing—not yet anyway—with the way Brendon phrased it. So it was love then between those two. That’s all it could be. Or, well, Brendon had said that _Dallon_ loved him. He had never said _he_ loved Dallon. A type of silver lining in there, surely. 

But that didn’t change the fact that he and Dallon were romantically involved with one another. 

Dallon and he were together and they kissed in private. Where had they shared their first kiss? Ryan wondered. What was it like? Dallon was taller; did he hold Brendon? Did Brendon stand on his toes? Did Dallon bend to meet him? Could Dallon lift him up, perhaps? What was kissing like for them; how often did they do it? How long had they been together? Brendon had only been back for two weeks. What if they were together while Brendon was in France? No. That wouldn’t make sense; Brendon had never received any letters from a ‘Dallon Weekes’ and he had been all over the French girls. French boys. French people. 

He wouldn’t do that to Dallon. He had done it with Ryan though. Where was Brendon Urie’s line? Did he have one? 

Ryan’s mind kept tumbling down the rabbit hole. 

Dallon got to kiss Brendon. Got to hold him and keep their lips together without the threat of Brendon shoving him away. The thought of Dallon kissing Brendon sent an ugly jealousy into Ryan’s stomach. It was wrong, he knew that. Brendon wasn’t his and it was unfair that his intestines were flopping around in his body the way they were. He shouldn’t be jealous. But he was. 

He was disgustingly green with envy. Another reason he was a toy soldier. He was a soldier, right out of France. He was a toy made to be played with. And he was goddamn green too. Ryan Ross was more a toy soldier than anyone else in the world. How fitting. 

He wondered how Brendon liked to be kissed and if Dallon knew how to do it properly. Ryan hadn’t had enough time himself to figure it out. Figure out what made Brendon’s insides tick. He thought he had been doing the right thing. He was almost positive he had when Brendon held him so close. Didn’t back away the first time they parted. 

But then Brendon had ripped himself out of Ryan’s arms, and if Ryan knew he was going to do that he might not have kissed him in the first place. It would have hurt less.

He made a mistake kissing Brendon. He did. He’d ruined everything. It was a talent of his. 

The back of his head hurt where he’d hit the door when Brendon pushed him and his mouth felt mucky and clogged with toothpaste that he hadn’t rinsed out right. But the smoke was gone. At least the smoke was gone. That was all he had wanted. Just for Brendon’s taste to be out of his mouth. 

He missed it. 

It was around two in the morning. One thirty maybe. Something of that sort. The lights were out in windows and Ryan could scarcely see where he was going in the darkness. He would have completely gotten lost had it not been for the towering streetlamps overhead that were dotted precariously around the town. 

Was Dallon a _good_ kisser? Was he better than Ryan and that’s why Brendon backed up? No, that was a stupid idea. That was extremely stupid; Brendon wasn’t shallow. He wouldn’t do something like that. He backed up because he cared about Dallon. 

What was Brendon going to tell him? He made it sound to Ryan like he wasn’t going to say anything at all. He was going to pretend it never happened. What was Ryan supposed to do with that? Did Brendon expect him to come back and pretend they hadn’t kissed? Pretend he wasn’t in love? He couldn’t do that. 

He didn’t know how to do that. He’d been doing an alright job before, it seemed. Brendon hadn’t appeared to expect that kiss at all. Not that Ryan had planned it. The universe told him what to do. 

Apparently, the universe had been wrong with its stage cues. 

Ryan walked through the cold of Clearfield with his hands digging into his pockets. He could feel his cheeks and nose reddening. He needed to invest in a jacket. No, he didn’t. No, he _didn’t_. He wouldn’t be staying around in Clearfield long enough to need a jacket. 

Not if Brendon was going to ignore him. 

Was he selfish for wanting to leave? Most likely he was. But he couldn’t stay around. He couldn’t watch Brendon be in love with someone else. It would kill him. He didn’t want to die. 

What he really needed was a drink. That’s what he needed; something to help him forget what Brendon tasted like. The minty gunk in his mouth wasn’t doing all it needed to. 

He only knew the one bar and he did his best to remember the way Sarah had led him. He wondered what had happened to her. If she had run out or stayed behind and danced. Had he caused a scene without meaning to? Granted, he had _run_ out. And he knew that Brendon had sprinted out after him. 

Only Dallon had chosen to follow. Dallon loved Brendon. It was obvious. Even when Ryan didn’t know Brendon was gay, he could have pieced it together. Dallon needed to get better. If he was too obvious, he might get arrested.

Brendon might get arrested. 

And Ryan, technically, might get arrested. He had kissed a man. 

The realization that Ryan had broken the law was sudden and jarring. If anyone ever found out about that Ryan would be sent to jail. That was also quite the realization. Ryan couldn’t survive in prison. Neither could Brendon. Not with the way he looked. And sure, Brendon might have been gay but he still wouldn’t want that. 

There was a shiver etching up Ryan’s spine. He didn’t like thinking about Brendon in a jail cell. Didn’t like the thoughts of unsolicited hands that plagued him. His brain needed to stop working. 

He needed a goddamn drink. 

Ryan made it to The Church/Walk of Shame a ten-minute walk later. Butch—as Ryan remembered his name to be—wasn’t at the front door. It wasn’t closed. was it? That would perfect. Absolutely perfect. All Ryan wanted was a goddamn drink and the gay bar was closed. 

He reached out to the door—Butch was gone; no one could stop him—and pulled to see if it would open. It creaked ajar easily and Ryan blinked, sticking his head into the empty building. The lights were on and the top floor was vacant except for two men at the bar having an idle chat in hushed voices. One on the serving side and the other was sitting on one of the stools, hunched over the table top, arms folded on the bar as he whispered at his partner. 

There was silence and Ryan stood there; worried he was somehow intruding on something he wasn’t meant to. 

“Excuse me?” He called out across the room, taking a careful step inside. 

The two men looked up to see him and the one standing behind the bar waved a hand at him to get lost. “We’re closed; get out.”

Ryan shrunk back instantly, regretting his entrance. “Right sorry, I’ll just—I’m sorry.”

The man didn’t say anything in reply but looked back at whatever drink he was currently mixing. Ryan started to back out the door again when the second male spoke up suddenly, with much more enthusiasm, “Wait! Wait a minute!” 

Ryan stopped as he had been instructed to, continuing to hold the door open with a hand. 

The man clambered off his bar stool, swinging his leg over messily and landing roughly on the floor, jogging over to meet Ryan at the entrance. He was lean and his smile was broad, features sharp and his nose pointed. His black hair didn’t sit quite right on his head. 

“You.” He pointed a finger at Ryan as he neared, slowing to a walk when he got within ten feet. Why was he already out of breath? “I know you.”

Ryan blinked, perplexed. “No, you don’t.”

The man nodded his head frantically, his smile widening. “Yes, I do. I do! You’re Ryan, aren’t you? It is Ryan, isn’t it? War boy?”

Ryan’s jaw slacked. Why did everyone know his name at a gay bar he had never been to? Why did everyone know everything but him? “How do you—?”

“I’m Eric,” the man replied in a hurry, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other. “I’m friends with Uri—Brendon. I’m friends with Brendon.”

Eric. Ryan knew that name. Butch had mentioned an Eric. ‘Eric’s gonna shit bricks when he sees this,’ Butch had said. Shit-Bricks-Eric, right. Yes, of course. 

“I have talked to him so many—What are you doing standing there? You’re letting air in; it’s frigid. Come in. Please, please come in; we _have_ to talk.” Eric bustled Ryan inside without protest, talking a hundred miles a minute as he took Ryan by the shoulder to tug him away from the door, letting it slam shut behind him. 

Ryan allowed himself to be herded haphazardly to the bar where the other man was still standing, pouring himself a drink with a strawberry floating on the surface. When Ryan got close enough to make out the details of his face, he realized he knew that man too. Jon Walker, the owner of the bar. They had met earlier that night. 

Jon looked as wasted as he had an hour ago. He glowered at Ryan as he was shoved onto a bar stool by Eric. 

“Ronnie,” Jon said without looking at Eric, keeping his eyes trained on Ryan. “What the hell is this.”

Ryan assumed he was the ‘this’ in question.

“It’s Ryan,” Eric insisted as if that made any sense, lifting himself onto the barstool beside Ryan. He fidgeted in his seat how a child would and Ryan wondered if he had ever felt this odd before. This was such a strange interaction. He didn’t know this man and yet he had been shepherded in like he was an old friend. 

“I don’t know any Ryan’s,” Jon Walker grunted and he looked back down at the drink he was pouring. “You can’t keep bringing in new girls, Ronnie; this is the third one this month. Settle down, would you?”

“What?” Eric squinted. “No. No, he’s not—This is Brendon’s boy, remember?”

‘Brendon’s boy.’ That was a bold statement. Ryan turned swiftly on his barstool to stare Eric down. He wasn’t Brendon’s boy. And Brendon wasn’t his. Based on his understanding, Brendon’s boy was Dallon. Eric had the wrong guy. 

“He came in tonight, remember?” Eric went on, oblivious to Ryan’s glare. “You met him?”

“Ronnie, I don’t remember anything from the last two years.” Jon raised his glass to his lips. 

Eric snatched it before he could take a sip. “It might help if you stopped drinking then.”

Ryan was so lost. He was not supposed to be a part of this interaction. He felt like he had intervened on some sort of domestic dispute of a couple he had never met. He should probably get up and leave. He wondered if they would notice if he did. Jon Walker was wasted enough he possibly wouldn’t. Shit-Bricks-Eric might though. Ryan would have to plan his escape carefully around that one.

Jon sent Eric a dangerous look; he didn’t seem to be in the mood to play games. Eric took the hint, shaking his head and muttering something that Ryan didn’t understand. He turned back to face Ryan head on. Their knees bumped together when he moved. 

“You.” Eric pointed and there was only a few inches between his finger and Ryan’s chest. There was a tiny smile on his face but his eyes were completely serious. “Tell me your name.”

“Don’t you already… know it?” Ryan asked hesitantly and he shot a glance between Jon and Eric. Jon was still fuming and Eric was holding onto his drink filled with fruit. 

“I know ‘Ryan’,” Eric said. “But I need a last name.”

“Ross,” Ryan answered, unsure. 

“Ryan _Ross_ ,” Eric repeated like it was some great phrase. As if it were something he had never heard before and it altered his entire life view. That one name. _Ryan Ross_. He shook his head as if he were in disbelief. “Really? I didn’t picture that. When he said Ryan, I never followed it with Ross. Maybe Daniels, or Miller, or Williams or something of that sort. Never ‘Ross’. I like it.” 

Ryan shook his head, asking, “Can uh, can I ask who you are… exactly? And why you know my name at all?”

“Oh right, hello, I’m sorry.” Eric hit himself on the side of the head with a fist. It was a bit hard, if Ryan were being honest. “I’m a tad excited, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m Eric Ronick, hello, hi. I play piano for Brendon when he sings. Kid has a real talent; have you heard him sing?”

“I have,” Ryan answered. He had. Brendon was the best singer there was, no doubt about it.

“Talent!” Eric repeated enthusiastically.

“Better than Sinatra,” Ryan agreed because he didn’t know what else he could say. 

Jon snorted. “Woah there, Ryro.”

Ryan twitched. He glanced at Jon, raising his eyebrows. “I prefer Ryan.”

“And I prefer Ryro. Sorry kid; it’s my goddamn bar,” Jon spat back and busied himself with making a new glass of alcohol as Eric had his previous one held tightly in one hand. Ryan really didn’t understand what was happening. He looked back at Eric who was glaring daggers at Jon. If looks could kill. 

“Excuse him,” Eric said pointedly, not taking his eyes away from the man at the bar. “Jon’s a bit of bitch.”

Jon snapped his head up furiously. “And you’re n—” 

“You look different than I imagined,” Eric interrupted, looking back to Ryan so he could examine carefully with his eyes, ignoring Jon’s snarl. “How tall are you?”

“I don’t know, 5’10” or eleven.” Ryan wrinkled his brow. Why did that matter? 

“So you’re taller than him?” Eric asked. “How tall is Brendon? 5’9” maybe? Interesting. I am just so—wow. I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Uhm… alright.” Ryan didn’t have a slight clue about what was going on. He really wanted a drink. 

“You know Brendon has talked a lot about you,” Eric went on. “But I never thought I’d get the chance to—”

Ryan’s head spun and he interrupted without hesitation, “Brendon’s talked about me?”

“Hell, it’s the only thing me and that kid talk about,” Eric replied through a laugh. “Well, it’s not so much about you as much as it is—it’s hard to explain. It’s just that he thinks he can’t tell you that he’s queer—” Eric stopped abruptly, clamping his mouth shut and his eyes went wide. 

“Nice going, fathead,” Jon snorted. 

Ryan darted his head between the two. He was still so unbelievably lost. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them, looking at Eric’s mortified expression. He felt the need to explain and he gestured loosely with one hand toward Eric in comfort. “I-I know Brendon’s… _gay_ … if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“He came to the club tonight, Eric,” Jon added impassively, setting his new drink on the bar. “He’d be pretty goddamn stupid if he didn’t piece it together. Speaking of, you ran out pretty fast, kid. What’s the cause for that?”

So now Jon Walker remembered his life. Great. 

“You didn’t know he was a faggot until tonight, did you?” Why was Jon smiling at him? Snakelike and his drunk eyes flashed.

There was an odd twist of anger in Ryan’s stomach. He had called Brendon a faggot on the street. Is that what the word sounded like out loud? Revolting. He had really called Brendon that? 

“Don’t call him that,” Ryan warned before he could stop his mouth from moving. 

Jon’s eyes went big and his grin only widened. “My, my. Awful protective, huh? You one of ‘em?”

“One of what?” Ryan scowled at him. He didn’t like Jon Walker much. 

“The faggots,” Jon said back simply. Ryan hated his smile. 

Ryan gritted his teeth. “I’m not a faggot.”

“Then what’re you doing hanging around with one?”

Ryan stood from the bar too fast. He didn’t know what exactly he planned to do but if Jon Walker kept saying things of that sort, Ryan was going to do something about it. Most likely something stupid and detrimental to his physical health. 

Eric snagged him roughly by the shoulder and forced him back into his seat. It wasn’t very hard; Ryan wasn’t strong. “Woah there, fella. Jon? Settle, maybe?”

Jon didn’t say anything to Eric, only shrugged and let his smile falter at the corners. He gave Ryan a pointed look. He sounded bored. “I would have loved to see how that went over. I invite you to try again in a different setting when the babysitter isn’t here.”

“I don’t think we’ll need to be doing any of that any time soon,” Eric rushed out, not even offended at being called names. His evening of excitement had since faded and he no longer looked pleased to have Ryan there. He muttered, “This is not how I planned this going.”

“Don’t tell me you actually _planned_ your little interview,” Jon groaned and took a sip of his new drink. 

“My life is boring, Jon; I like living vicariously,” Eric complained. 

“Your life is not boring,” Jon insisted lazily. Ryan wished they would stop bickering. He didn’t need to be there if they were going to do nothing other than argue. Why had Eric even asked him in? All he wanted was a drink. 

“Excuse me, Jon,” he said, getting tired as he rested an elbow on the bar and his head in his hand. “How much for a drink?”

Jon turned back to him. “What makes you think I’d make you a drink, Ryro?”

“This is a bar, isn’t it?” Ryan countered. 

Jon glowered and Eric got off his bar stool before another argument could begin—defusing the situation before it even became one—sauntering around the bar. “What do you want, Ross?” 

Ryan grinned at him. Eric was a spazz, sure, but he seemed nice enough. Shit-Bricks-Eric playing piano with jazz-voice, Mormon raised Brendon Urie singing along with him? Ryan was sure it was quite the show. If he was planning to stay in Clearfield—which he wasn’t with how tonight was going—he would have wanted to see that. 

“Brendon says you got Tom Collins here,” Ryan told him.

“Love that guy,” Eric replied and Ryan didn’t know if he was talking about Brendon or Tom Collins. As Eric walked beside Jon, the bar owner jumped and Ryan got the impression Eric had stepped on his foot. He hid his smile. 

“I’m gonna beat your ass later,” Jon hissed to his side as he moved out of Eric’s way. 

“That’s cute,” Eric mumbled back, unfazed, without looking at Jon as he bent to retrieve a bottle of gin. “You want it sweet, Ryan?”

Ryan stopped to think and said, “I think I’ve had enough sugar tonight. Extra lemon, if you could.”

“Of course I can,” Eric answered and he pulled an empty glass up onto the bar.

Jon watched him work intently. “Ronnie, what the hell are you—”

“I’m doing it right.”

“You’re not.”

Ryan didn’t mind so much. He would rather have a badly made drink from Eric Ronick’s spastic ass than a well made one from Jon Walker who called Brendon a faggot. Ryan’s blood was still bubbling up in his veins. What an ugly word. Why had Ryan said it before? 

“So to clarify, Ryan,” Eric directed to him again as he inspected a glass to see if it was clean. “Brendon told you he was gay tonight?”

“He didn’t tell me he was gay,” Ryan responded. It felt odd saying out loud in conversation, especially to people he didn’t even know. “I found out.”

“Okay… okay. And you… you’re straight then?” Eric sent him a quick glance from the corner of his eyes. He looked like he was searching for something.

“I am…” Ryan blinked. ‘Undecided’ felt like a stupid thing to say. “Yes.”

“Sure you are,” Jon took a swig from his drink and set the glass down on the bar top. “Why you want a drink of gin, Ryro?”

“I’m thirsty,” Ryan answered, hoping he sounded nonchalant. 

“What, B doesn’t have running water at his place?” Jon asked, malice behind the words. “You are staying with him aren’t you?”

“Did Brendon tell you that?” Ryan asked, immediately straightening. How much had Brendon told these people? 

“No,” Jon answered. “B told Eric and Eric told me.”

Ryan cast a glance to Eric who didn’t make eye contact. “I may have mentioned it once to Jon on accident.”

Made sense that he would. Eric didn’t strike Ryan as the kind who was good at keeping secrets. He couldn’t find himself very irritated though that Eric was telling the world about his and Brendon’s situation. He would most likely be furious later but at the moment, he only found himself tired with the world and its menial problems. Maybe after he had a drink or two, he could find the energy to be angry. 

“One bedroom right?” Eric shot his eyes up again. 

“Who sleeps in the bed?” Jon asked.

“I do,” Ryan answered and moved his other hand to the bar to rest his head in both. _Except for last night when we slept together._ That felt like something he should keep to himself. Well, Brendon had apparently sold all his secrets away. Maybe he should return the favor. No. He wouldn’t. Brendon’s secrets were his own. 

“Got that boy whipped, huh?” Jon sneered. “Bet he falls on his knees whenever you so much as— _Shit_ , Eric!” 

Ryan physically heard Eric step on Jon that time, loud and he flinched himself imagining how that felt. Eric was practically snarling, his crooked teeth bared. 

“Jon,” he snapped venomously. “Cut it out. _Now_.” 

Jon returned the growl. 

“You’re fucking drunk, Jon, go lay down,” Eric reprimanded. His voice didn’t soften for a moment and Ryan sat stiffly on his bar stool, feeling incredibly uncomfortable that he had to witness any of that. Eric pointed at the door that Ryan knew led down to The Church and hissed, “ _Go_ , Jon. Before I kick you in a different place. Don’t think I won’t.”

Jon scowled at Eric but didn’t say anything else as he turned, dragging himself—and his fruity drink—away and down the stairs to The Church. Eric watched him go and if Ryan had to name an emotion he would say Eric looked saddened by Jon’s departure. 

Eric must have liked Jon. They must have been friends. Why, exactly, Ryan couldn’t place his finger on. Jon Walker didn’t strike him as the sort of person he would want to be friends with. 

“I’m sorry about him,” Eric said, genuinely sounding distraught that his night wasn’t going the way he had planned it. Ryan understood that feeling. His night wasn’t either. It was about the worst day of his life. And he was in France for three years. “He really is nice. When he’s sober.”

“How often is he sober?” Ryan queried as Eric pushed him a glass of what was supposed to be Tom Collins.

Eric smiled feebly. “Not enough.” 

Ryan nodded and took a sip from his drink. It wasn’t terrible but it was obvious Eric didn’t know how to make a drink. He didn’t say anything about it though; alcohol was alcohol and he needed some. “Sorry to hear. You two friends?”

“Best,” Eric answered without hesitation. He rested his hands flat on the surface of the table and started to drum a quiet beat with his fingers. “But I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d punched him.”

Ryan chuckled, directing his eyes into his gin and shaking his head. “I wasn’t going to punch him.”

“You weren’t? Sure had me fooled; I thought you were about to let out on him,” Eric confessed, touching his heart as if it was some deep felt gesture. 

“I’m not the… fighting type,” Ryan mumbled and he took another drink. 

Eric blinked. “I—Weren’t you in the army with Brendon? I thought that was how you met each other?”

“Yeah.” Ryan had already drained half the glass and hadn’t even realized. “But… I mean I never—I never shot anyone. Exactly. Not really. I mean sure, did I aim my gun? Yeah. But I closed my eyes when I pulled the trigger, I don’t know if those bullets even hit or not. So I can’t count myself as a… I’m not the fighting kind.”

Eric made an uncomfortable scoff in the back of his throat. He said his words hesitantly, as if he knew he would regret them. But he felt they needed to be said. “Just because you aren’t looking at it, doesn’t make the bullet any less yours.” 

“You ever been in war, Eric?” Ryan asked, looking up at him. There was a wave of new, sudden anger to his stomach. It was fleeting but it was there, burning in his organs. “I don’t think you can tell me what is and what isn’t murder, huh? Get back to me when you’ve spent three years in France, Eric.”

Eric raised both his eyebrows. “Oh. Okay. You’re that kind, alright. I see. Interesting. Whenever Brendon mentioned you, he didn’t describe you as an ass. Guess that’s the sort of thing you find out for yourself.”

Ryan straightened in his chair, realizing he had made an error somewhere along the way. “I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?”

“It’s fine.” Eric waved a hand. Ryan got the impression it wasn’t. “You’re right. I haven’t been to France; I wouldn’t understand. I’ll make sure to call you up when the next war comes around.”

Ryan didn’t know if he was joking or not. There was a smile on his face but it was sharper than the one he had fixed Ryan with earlier. 

“Brendon told me the other day he’s killed people before,” Eric told him. “Real casual, too. I was sort of surprised he was willing to say it and I thought y’know ‘wow, war boy’s are pretty calm then, aren’t they?’ But now I’ve met you. And I realize, there’s two sides to every coin, eh?” Eric let out a small sigh. “He’s a sweet kid, Urie. Don’t find many like him these days.”

“He’s divine,” Ryan agreed quietly, more to himself than to Eric. 

Eric cleaned a glass out with a rag. “You in love with him?”

Ryan choked on a mouthful of gin. “Sorry?” 

That had come out of nowhere. What the hell was Eric Ronick’s problem? What sort of man asked that type of question to someone he hadn’t ever met before? 

“N-no. I’m not in _love_ with Brendon.” He was a shit liar. 

“Huh.” Eric puckered his lips. “So you haven’t talked to him then?”

“Talked to him?” Ryan repeated. “About what?”

Eric was smiling again in a more genuine way, similar to how he had when he had first seen Ryan in the doorway. “About you. Thought you found out he was gay today; that must’ve sparked some type of conversation.”

It sparked some sort of conversation alright. Some sort of action too. The ghosts of Brendon’s hands were in his hair and on his suspenders and the taste of smoke loitered on his tongue. 

“He told me about Dallon,” Ryan said to Eric. 

Eric’s face fell completely. “Dallon? Why the hell would he tell you about Dallon?”

“Because he’s in love with him.” Ryan downed the last of his Tom Collins and pushed the empty glass to Eric. 

Eric didn’t refill it, only staring at Ryan with bugged eyes. “He told you he was in love with _Dallon_?” 

“Not in so many words but—”

“So he didn’t tell you.”

“He said, because he was ‘involved with Dallon’, that he couldn’t—we couldn’t—I don’t really know what else that means except that he’s in love with the man.” Ryan cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head. He pointed lazily at his empty Tom Collins. “Can I get a refill on that, Eric?”

Eric snatched the drink from the table. “Couldn’t what? He said you couldn’t what?”

“I don’t think Brendon would want me to—”

“I think he would,” Eric rushed out. “He’s told me everything else.”

“Like what?” Ryan scoffed, looking at Eric incredulously. 

“Like the fact that you showed up on his doorstep and he took care of you and let you sleep in his bed.” Eric threw up his hands. “I mean, the man wrote a song about it for me.”

“A song?” Ryan repeated. 

“Yeah, ‘Former Love’; I don’t know what he wants to call it.” Eric fumbled his hands into his pockets to pull something out. “I thought maybe he would sing it tonight but we haven’t confirmed the instrumental to it. Here.” 

Eric passed a folded slip of paper to Ryan. Ryan blinked for a second, darting his eyes between Eric and the piece of paper before Eric brandished it at him again and Ryan reached over the table to take it from him. 

“This is about—” Ryan poked a finger into his own chest. “Me?”

“That’s what I’m led to believe.” 

Ryan turned back to the paper in his hands and unfolded it. He wasn’t shaking, was he? He had too much to drink; that was it. One glass could be too much, right?

When he opened the paper up, he knew for certain that the handwriting wasn’t Brendon’s. It was too neat to be his. Too uniform. That meant one of two things, Eric wrote it. Or Dallon did. 

Dallon. It was definitely Dallon. 

Ryan skimmed it over with his eyes. 

_You remind me of a former love that I once knew / And you carry a little speech with you / We were holding hands walking through the middle of the street / It's fine with me, I'm just taking in the scenery._

_You remind me of a few of my famous friends / Well, that all depends what you qualify as friends / You remind me of a few of my famous friends / Well, that all depends what you qualify as friends._

_Take a chance, take your shoes off, dance in the rain / And I was flashing around and the news spread all over town / I'm not complaining that it's raining, I'm just saying that I like it a lot / More than you think, if the sun would come out and sing with me._

Ryan read it twice. It didn’t make any more sense the second time. He looked up at Eric. He was slightly disappointed. “This isn’t about me.”

“Yes it is,” Eric replied. 

“ _No_ , it’s not.” Ryan turned the page over, found nothing on the back, and turned it to the front again. “This—These lyrics don’t even make sense. They’re beautiful, don’t get me wrong. Sort of… sad, actually. But these aren’t—This isn’t about me.”

“It’s a song, Ross,” Eric said, rolling his eyes. He was working on making Ryan a second drink. Ryan probably could go without it. “You gotta read a little deeper below the surface.”

“Eric, I don’t know what any of this means.” Ryan passed the paper back. He wished it meant it something. God, did he wish that. It was beautiful; really it was. Brendon wasn’t such a bad writer. Ryan bet it sounded good to the ears too. He would love to hear Brendon sing it once. 

“Former love?” Eric said. “You don’t get anything from that?”

“Why would I?” Ryan prompted. 

Eric gripped at the air with empty fists. He seemed angry but Ryan didn’t know who with. “Because it’s _you_!” 

“Me?” Ryan asked again. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it _is_!” Eric sounded like he was begging. Ryan almost laughed at how ridiculous he looked. 

“Brendon’s never loved me,” Ryan said back without hesitation and it was only when he said it out loud that it became real. His smile fell entirely and his body felt impossibly heavy, weighed down by some invisible force. He swallowed thickly. Brendon didn’t love him.

Eric’s desperation faded quickly when he saw Ryan’s expression slacken. “What? How do you figure that?”

Ryan scrubbed a hand over his face and back through his hair. He needed that hair cut something awful. “You’re gay, aren’t you?”

Eric took a second to smile. “I’m a little bit of everything.”

Ryan made a face of confusion. 

“But yes,” Eric went on. “I suck dick; to answer the question directly.”

Ryan laughed in surprise, an abrupt noise that forced itself from the back of his throat in embarrassment. “Jesus, alright. So this is mild then to you. Me and Brendon… you won’t tell anyone this? Not even Jon.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Eric pledged, marking an ‘X’ over his breast pocket with a finger. “He’s too drunk to remember it anyway.”

Ryan liked Eric. “I kissed him.”

Eric’s grin wiped off his face instantly. Drowned away like it was never there. His jaw dropped too and he gaped at Ryan, eyes bugging out of his head. “Y-you what? You? _You_ kissed _him_?”

Ryan chuckled and nodded. He didn’t know why he was laughing. Nothing in the world was funny. Still though, his stomach rumbled and his throat vibrated. “I did. Planted one on him in the middle of his apartment.”

“And?” Eric waved a frantic hand. “And he...?”

“Kissed me back.” It felt good to say it out loud. It had felt better to kiss him.

“And then…?” Eric waved both hands. 

This part wasn’t so much fun to say. “Then he stopped and told me he was involved with Dallon.”

Eric smacked the bar with a hand so loud it made Ryan jump. “He did _what_? Why the hell would he do that? You kissed him! That’s what he’s been fucking going on about for the last goddamn week! And he _broke it off_?”

Ryan nearly questioned why Eric was so upset—it wasn’t his love affair—but then he paused, realizing what Eric had said. “Going on about?”

Eric froze, staring anywhere but Ryan’s face. He glanced at the floor. “I really should stop ruining the surprises.”

He slid Ryan over his second glass of Tom Collins which Ryan took reluctantly, never breaking his gaze with Eric. “Did Brendon—Did Brendon _want_ to kiss me?” 

Eric shook his head slowly while staring at Ryan in seemingly disbelief. “You two are idiots, aren’t you? You’re just _morons_.”

“What?” 

“Of course he’s wanted to fucking kiss you. But now you’ve kissed him and he’s got it in his head that—I can’t even think of a reason he would break it off except—Dally. Right. Dally.” Eric let out a sigh and wiped his nose. “I really didn’t think about him, did I? Dally’s in love with the boy.”

Ryan’s heart did a compressing motion in his chest. Why did Dallon win? Why did he get Brendon’s smile and his laugh and his lips? Why didn’t Ryan? He loved Brendon too. 

“God, Urie must be losing his mind right about now. This is a lot for me to process and I wasn’t even a part of it,” Eric muttered. He took Ryan’s Tom Collins from the table and took a sip. Ryan didn’t protest and took it back when Eric handed it to him, taking his own swig. Too heavy on the lemon. “You didn’t leave him alone to stew in his thoughts did you? Feels a little harsh.”

And breaking off a kiss wasn’t? Breaking Ryan’s heart a minute after he had finally pieced it back together? Kicking him out of the fucking sky when he’d finally learned how to fly? That wasn’t harsh?

“Dallon was with him,” Ryan answered bitterly. 

“I guess that’s alright then, Dally can keep him in check. Give him time to… weigh his options then, I suppose. Wow. He has to choose, doesn’t he. Why didn’t he write a song about this? It would have been incredible.” Eric frowned thoughtfully. “Good guy, Dally. Hate this is happening the way it is.”

Ryan simmered. “So I keep hearing.”

Eric didn’t have anything else to say. There wasn’t any more to say really for either of them. Ryan didn’t even know where to start. This night had been a disaster. He kissed Brendon. Brendon kissed him back and for a fleeting moment the world made sense. And then Brendon pushed him away. Brendon had someone who loved him. And Eric made a shit Tom Collins. 

Ryan needed to talk to someone he knew. He needed something familiar. He needed Vegas. 

“You don’t happen to have a phone, do you, Eric?” Ryan asked, setting his glass back on the table.

“In the back for emergencies, sure. You need to make a call?” Eric asked, walking out from behind the bar. 

“Yeah, I do.” Ryan slid off the barstool to follow Eric. 

“Where to?” Eric asked, making his way to a door towards the corner of the room. 

“Vegas.”

“Vegas,” Eric repeated. “I knew a guy from Vegas once.”

“D’you suck his dick?” 

Eric laughed loudly. It was a good laugh and Ryan was proud to be the cause of it. “Nah, too straight for that. Don’t get me wrong, I tried and all. Couldn’t handle me though.”

Ryan chuckled, nodding as he went into the room, focusing on the phone sitting on a dusty coffee table between two chairs towards the back. “I’m sure. Thanks, Eric, really.”

“Course,” Eric returned. “Don’t take too long though; we can’t be spending too much money. Small budget here. Favor for a friend like you though, I’ll let it slide.”

Ryan smiled at him feebly. “I only need a few minutes.”

Eric took that as his cue to exit and waved at Ryan for no discernable reason as he shut the door behind him. Ryan looked down at the phone in silence for a moment before sitting down in one of the chairs opposite it. 

He tugged the machinery towards him and sat it in his lap. Held it tight to his middle. Took in a shaky breath and rang the number before he could regret it. Besides, he could blame it all on one and a half Tom Collins later. Couldn’t he? 

The phone only rang twice before a female voice was speaking into the other end, calm and smooth, “Berg household. Elizabeth speaking.”

Ryan sat there a moment. How did she manage to sound the same? He would have thought she would sound different, somehow tainted by the week he had been away. A week was a long time, wasn’t it? Surely she had changed. Or at least sound different than three years ago. But she didn’t. She sounded the same as she had when she told him she loved him for the first time. 

“Hello?” She asked into the phone. 

“Hi,” he answered on impulse and gripped the phone a little tighter in his fist. He wished he hadn’t spoken. Wished he had hung up before she could know it was him.

Z let out a heavy breath on the other end of the line. She asked, hesitant, “Ryan?”

He coughed out a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, hi.”

“Ryan—” _You amazing, wonderful, beautiful boy; I am so happy to hear from you. I missed you so much. Spencer and me and even your dad, we miss you so much. Where are you? When are you coming home? We want you back._ “You fucking bastard!”

Ryan blinked in surprise. That wasn’t what he was expecting. “What?”

“You absolute prick! What the hell is wrong with you!” Z screeched into his ear, not sounding even remotely merciful. She must have been alone; she wouldn’t yell like that if she were in public. Not for Ryan’s sake. “I think you’re dead for three goddamn years! Three, Ryan! And you-you fucking swing by for one lousy, goddamn afternoon and you leave again? What the hell, Ryan! What in the fucking hell is wrong with you!”

During her monologue, Ryan had taken the phone away from his ear, cringing. That wasn’t what he had been hoping would come out of her mouth. He couldn’t count himself surprised though; he deserved it. He opened and closed his mouth a moment before squeaking, “I’m sorry?”

“You’re goddamn right you fucking are! Where the hell are you? Spencer told me you went to Utah. Fucking Utah, Ryan! What’s that all about?”

“I uh—” Ryan tried to clear his head. “Seemed the thing to do, s’all. Had to get away.”

What exactly had he told Spencer? He had said that a friend from Utah wrote him. That’s what he had said. A war buddy who lived in Utah. He wondered what exactly Spencer had told Z. How that conversation had gone over. 

“What did he tell you?” Ryan asked to clarify. 

“Told me you called him up and said, ‘bye, I’m going to Utah for a few weeks don’t wait up’ and you left. You just _left_. What in the name of God, Ryan. I thought you were dead all over again.”

“I’m not.”

“I know you’re fucking well not,” she snapped. “If you were actually dead this time around, I’d kill you.”

Ryan smiled to himself. “How are you, Z?”

“What? How am I?” She repeated, almost disgusted by the question. She still sounded angry. He bet she was pouting, arms folded. He could visualize her standing in the middle of her father’s house, hand on her hip and her feet planted firmly on the carpet. Ringlets of blond hair falling in front of her face that she had to blow out of her eyes. He bet she was beautiful. “I’m _peachy_ , Ryan. How are you?”

“I’ve been better, I’ll be honest,” he said back quietly through his smile. 

Instantly the anger drained out of her voice as she replied in a softer tone, almost worried he thought, “What? Why? Are you okay?”

“I’m alright.”

“What’s happened, Ryan?” She asked him urgently. He heard a rustling on the other end and he thought she probably sat down on the sofa. 

“A lot,” he answered and it was the truth. 

“It’s only been a week,” she murmured.

“A lot can happen in a week.”

“Such as?”

Ryan didn’t want to tell her and instead he deflected the question, asking one of his own. “How is he?”

Z must have shaken her head as the phone cracked into Ryan’s ear. “How is who, Ryan?”

“Spencer.”

She slacked. “ _Ryan_. Why do you ask? I don’t believe you really want to know.”

“He’s my friend,” Ryan said before he paused. “Was my friend. Is my friend? I don’t really know. How is he, anyhow?”

Z sighed. “He’s fine, Ryan.”

“You still kissing on him?”

Z scoffed. “Depends on the day.”

“You love him yet?” Ryan asked her.

“I do,” she whispered. Pitying or pitiful, Ryan couldn’t distinguish.

“Huh.” Ryan nodded. He waited a beat. “I get to be best man, don’t I?”

Z laughed sorrowfully. “No, I was going to ask you to be my bridesmaid.”

“Why not the flower girl?” He proposed, hoping he sounded playful. 

She laughed like she meant it. Like she was actually happy. Ryan missed the sound of her laugh. He let himself smile at the familiar song. “Right, of course. Of course you can. You’ll look great in pink.”

Ryan grinned. “You gonna marry him soon?”

He thought Spencer was a bit too cheap to buy a ring. Or maybe he didn’t have the money. Spencer worked at a diner, didn’t he? On the strip. That was hardly the sort of job where you could afford to buy your girlfriend a nice ring. Z wouldn’t mind though. Z loved him enough not to care about a ring. 

She hummed off key. “Doubt it. We’ve only been together a year and a half now.”

“Feels like plenty of time to me,” Ryan said back. 

“What?” She asked, teasing. “Are you eager for me to get married?”

“I’m eager for you to be happy, Z,” he returned. “And right now I think Spencer’s the way to do that.”

“You make me happy, Ryan,” she said quietly into the phone, her voice barely above a whisper. 

He smiled off center. “Thanks Z; you too.”

“That mean you’re coming home soon?” She proposed. Her voice took on a new inflection when she said that. Like she was driving at something that Ryan couldn’t quite distinguish. 

Home. He had nearly forgotten about that again. Home. Las Vegas. That was home wasn’t it? Not Clearfield, Utah where he slept in Brendon’s bed. That wasn’t home. That shitty house in Las Vegas, Nevada with Z was. Was Z saying she was his home? That ship had long since sailed. Spencer was her home now. She was his. And Ryan? Ryan wasn’t anyone’s. He wanted Brendon to be his. Wanted to be Brendon’s. 

Eric had said Brendon wanted Ryan to kiss him. Was that true? Did Brendon love him too? Surely not. Love was such a strong word. Brendon didn’t feel that way. He wouldn’t have broken the kiss off if he did. 

“I don’t know, Z,” Ryan muttered. 

“Why not?” She sounded like she was begging. 

“I—I have some things I need to take care of here first.” 

He needed to talk to Brendon. Before he went home. And he would. He _would_ go home eventually. He wasn’t going to stay around if Brendon was going to stay with Dallon; Ryan couldn’t bare that. But maybe, just maybe… Brendon wanted him. He had to stay until he found that out. Had to. 

“Such as…?” She interrogated. 

“Uh… I don’t really want—” he started before Z cut him off. 

She said, commanding, “You just asked me how long until I was getting married to your best friend. You owe me a secret. C’mon. You always told me before.”

That wasn’t true. Ryan never told her that his dad fucked his leg. Only Brendon Urie had been entrusted with that information. Sure, Spencer pretended he knew. But he didn’t really. Spencer didn’t know jackshit. Ryan hoped he really was doing alright. He missed Spencer. 

“I think I’m in love, Z.”

There was a pause and he could hear her breathing into the receiver. She repeated, halting, “In love?”

“Uh huh.” 

“Is she—” Z stopped herself and asked instead, “Okay… and you… She lives in Utah?”

“Yep.” He did.

“So you’ve known her a week?” Z pressed, her voice dropping to an incredulous deadpan. “Ryan, you can’t be in love with a girl after a week.”

“Sure you can. People do it all the time.”

“Yeah, some people Ryan,” Z said back in a skeptical laugh. “But not you. Ryan, we dated six months before you even thought about telling me you loved me. We were friends a year before that. Someone else could fall in love in a few days; but _you_ , Ryan Ross, cannot fall in love in a week. It’s not in your nature.” 

He didn’t know if he was supposed to be offended by that or not. “I loved you before I said it.”

Z ignored him. “You told this girl you love her yet?” 

“No.” _I haven’t told him_. “But I kissed her.”

“After a week!” Z exclaimed, partly playful but at the same time genuinely surprised. “Ryan Ross, you devil! What did France do to you! Did she like it?”

“Yeah I—” He thought of Brendon’s hands in his hair and his lips skating up his neck. Ryan’s skin tingled. “I think so.”

“So what’s the problem? Sounds like you’ve got it,” she told him with a soft snort. 

“She has a…” _Fags don’t date_. “A boyfriend, I guess, is what he is.”

“You kissed a girl with a boyfriend?” Z echoed, alarmed. “Ryan, you really are a devil.”

“I didn’t know she had one when I kissed her,” Ryan replied glumly and he stubbed the toe of his boot against the floor. 

He was telling the truth. He hadn’t known Dallon and Brendon were involved when he had kissed him. He probably should have been able to put two and two together but in the moment it hadn’t mattered. Hadn’t mattered who had Brendon’s lips in the past so long as Ryan got them in the present. 

“And she said she wanted to kiss me but she couldn’t because he’s in love with her and she cares too much about him—It’s complicated, Z and I don’t really know what to do.”

“Well I don’t either, Ryan,” Z explained. “I don’t even know who this girl is.”

“She’s perfect, Z, she really is.” Ryan let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. Brendon Urie was God sent. Or perhaps, if he was really thinking about it, Brendon was sent by the Devil himself to tempt Ryan. Evil eyes. He might be. Ryan was finding it hard to say the right pronoun. “She—she’s got these black eyes and dark hair and she wears these rings and—her laugh, Z, holy hell. And her-her _smile_ —and I just—I’m crazy about her Z, I am. She’s divine.”

“Better than me?” Z asked. It was teasing. Z was pretty perfect too. 

“Of course not,” Ryan reassured. “No one is.”

“Damn right about that,” Z stated and Ryan laughed at her. 

He loved her, it was obvious he still did. A different way though. An adoration for her based on admiration. Who she was, not how he could have her. He didn’t want to have her anymore. He wanted to have Brendon. That was all.

“What’s her name?” Z asked.

“Bren… da.” Ryan cringed at his own stilted pronunciation. Not that Z would notice the inflection. Maybe she would think the signal was bad. He was in Utah after all and she was in Vegas. The words were allowed to sound a tad bit fuzzy. “Brenda.”

“Brenda?” Z affirmed and Ryan nodded even though she couldn’t see him. There was skepticism in her voice. “Hey… that’s sorta funny.”

“What is?” Ryan asked. 

“Nothing.” Z hummed a quick tune. “It’s—Spencer said you were there to see a war friend.”

Ryan’s heart sank. 

“Brendon was his name, right?”

Ryan kept dead quiet. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He should have been more clever. He should have used the name Jac again. He could have a girlfriend named Jac. Why couldn’t he resist the urge to say Brendon’s name? He was such an idiot. God, he was stupid. He held his breath. 

“Any relation?” She asked.

“Siblings,” Ryan lied, voice strained. “People in Utah aren’t very creative you know.”

“Oh. Huh.” Z didn’t sound so convinced but she didn’t press any further. 

Ryan breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God. What if she found out he was gay? He wasn’t gay actually. Ryan wasn’t gay and he wasn’t straight. He didn’t know what the hell he was. All he knew was that he liked Brendon and Brendon happened to be a man. And people wouldn’t like that so much. 

“Well maybe,” Z suggested. “You should take some time away from this girl. Maybe come back for a while. I was talking to my dad about maybe getting you a job at his—”

“I’m not coming back yet,” Ryan answered instantly; probably a little too hurried.

“I thought you said—”

“I’m not coming back. I can’t. Not when I’m this close to—” To what? To getting Brendon to maybe kiss him and break it off again? No. No, Eric had said he wanted to kiss him. Ryan was close. So close. He could—would. He _would_ tell Brendon how he felt. He would fight for Brendon Urie. He would. 

“Ryan, you need to come back.” 

“What for? What’s there for me?” Ryan hadn’t meant to snap. 

Z was silent for a moment before she said, “Spencer. _Me_?”

“Z.” Ryan huffed out a sigh. “You know I love you. You know I do. But… I have to stay. Just a while longer.”

“How long?”

“Forever if I need to.” It was the truth. If he had to fight forever to get Brendon’s lips back on his, he would. It was worth it. 

“Ryan, you can’t do that,” Z said. She said it lowered in a hiss. She sounded sad. Why was she sad all of a sudden? She had been so chipper not five minutes prior. Why was home a sore subject? 

“Why not?” Ryan enreated. “Why the hell not?”

“I thought you were coming home soon,” she mumbled. “I thought I would get to—I wanted to tell you in person, Ryan.”

That was never how good news started. Ryan sat up straighter in his chair. How had the mood suddenly gone so somber? “What?”

“I’ve wanted to call you since it happened but Spencer didn’t have the number to where you were staying and—Ryan I really am so glad you called I wish I didn’t have to tell you this…” She gave up, asking him again, “Why can’t you just come home?”

“Why would I need to?” Ryan demanded, losing patience quickly. 

Z took a breath. 

A beat. 

“He’s passed… Ryan. Your dad… About three days now. I know that you two weren’t close but—it’s your dad. And we didn’t want to schedule a funeral without you here but I didn’t have your number and I was hoping—This isn’t the sort of thing you tell someone over the phone. You have to come back, Ryan. You have to. It’s your _dad_.”

All the fight drained from Ryan’s body. 

“Shit,” he whispered. He didn’t know what other word encapsulated it. 

“Ryan, I’m so sorry,” Z breathed back. She sounded as much. “I’m so so sorry, please know that. I didn’t want to say it over the phone. I’m sorry you weren’t here.”

Why did all of Ryan’s conversations keep ending in that phrase? ‘I’m sorry.’ What for? Nothing in the world to be sorry about. Nothing that even made sense at all. 

To recap the day then. 

Ryan woke up sweaty with Brendon Urie’s arms around him. Brendon ran away from him without explanation. Ryan ended falling _up_ the fucking stairs and skinning his hands. Then he found out Brendon was gay. He found out Brendon was gay and had been lying to him forever. And then he kissed him. A ray of sunshine in that shitty darkness. And then Brendon pushed him away. Brendon told him he was involved. He kicked Ryan right out of the fucking sky right as he learned how to fly in it. 

And now his dad was dead. His dad, George fucking Ross. Dead as a goddamn doornail. 

Ryan had to laugh. Not a chuckle; not a small snort. A howl. A cackling, deep laugh that rumbled through his entire body and crawled up his throat out into the air. 

“Ryan?” Z asked, worried instantly. “Ryan, why are you laughing? This isn’t funny, Ryan. I’m serious.”

Ryan wheezed. “I don-I don’t even know, Z. I can’t—” He cackled. “I can’t think of… anything else to do.”

He held onto his stomach as he laughed, his side starting to cramp again. 

Amazing. Brilliant. His dad was dead and Brendon Urie didn’t love him. Perfect. Fate and God were laughing at him too; surely they were. It was funny. He couldn’t have planned the circumstances better himself. 

He had to give this one to God. The man was good at his job. 

Perfectly crafted the worst day imaginable. How was Ryan expected _not_ to laugh? He’d learned the trick in war from Brendon’s rings. 

Tragedy was more hilarious than comedy could ever be.


	28. Words Don't Come Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long! Please enjoy!

There was a part of Brendon that wished he hadn’t sent Dallon away. Not that it would have been much better if Dallon had stayed around. It was more that Brendon was getting sick of being alone. He hadn’t been entirely by himself in a full week. It was always him and Ryan in the apartment, dancing awkwardly around each other, and then seeing Dallon at The Church later on. 

Ryan, Dallon, Ryan, Dallon. Back and forth, back and forth like he was playing catch.

Being alone was a luxury he hadn’t been subjected to in _days_. It felt as though the most solitude he had the entire week Ryan had been living with him was when he took that shower in the morning while Ryan was asleep. And he was beginning to realize why. 

Being alone felt like shit. 

He had forgotten what being by himself was like. He didn’t miss being alone at all. Didn’t miss the sound of silence around him; devoid of another person’s voice or laughter. Didn’t miss what it was like to sit on a couch in his apartment with no one sitting beside him, listening to the radio that couldn’t seem to play the song he wanted. Didn’t miss the taste of a cigarette smoked alone. 

What he missed was when Dallon and he weren’t anything more than friends; nothing more than simple friends that laughed and watched Looney Tunes together at Dallon’s house on the couch. Missed when things weren’t complicated between Ryan and him. Missed the way Ryan’s hair felt in his hands and the sugar sweet taste of his lips. 

He wished that Ryan hadn’t left. Brendon hadn’t told him he could leave; hadn't given him explicit permission. Who did Ryan Ross think he was? Storming out on Brendon like that the moment things got hairy? Brendon was struggling just as much if not more. Ryan Ross was not excused. 

Not that Brendon was mad with him. He wasn’t mad with Ryan necessarily. He was more mad at himself for being in the situation at all. For putting himself in such a stupid predicament. All he wanted was for Ryan to come back. That was really what he wished for. For Ryan to come back to the apartment safe and sound, sporting that nervous smile and those tight suspenders. Where had he gone off to anyway? There were only so many things Clearfield had to offer. 

It was nearing morning, the start to the sunrise fading through the one window at the back of Brendon’s apartment and across the floor of the hall. He hated it. Hated the sun that was beginning to shine dimly into his home and the glow it sent about the entire place, showing off the dust particles that floated in the air. It was too bright all of a sudden and Brendon’s eyes stung. 

His sleep schedule was sporadic at best; it felt like he hadn’t properly seen the sun in ages. Staying awake through the night and taking half naps in the afternoon before singing until ungodly hours of the night. Dragging himself home and doing his best to fall asleep on the couch. Sleeping with Ryan Ross for an eternity out of the blue the night prior. Brendon needed to get back on track. He needed to go to fucking sleep and stay that way. 

Sleep forever. That was the best plan. He wouldn’t be required to make any decisions then. Any choices. He could dream away the entire situation. Ah, yes. That was the best course of action indeed. Dream himself into a better life; one that didn't consist of risking the loss of the only two people that truly mattered to him. 

But he stayed awake instead, waiting anxiously for Ryan’s safe return from the streets of Clearfield. 

Ryan had been gone for at least two hours, going on three. Where had he even run off to? ‘Out to get a drink,’ Ryan had said to him. ‘Playing it by ear.’ What the hell did that mean? Ryan Ross didn’t play anything _by ear_. 

Brendon bounced his leg up and down and smoked his third cigarette of the night turned morning. He rolled his sleeves to his elbows and kept pulling his dog tag in and out of his shirt.

There were no bars open at this time; there hadn’t been any open when Ryan left either, Brendon knew that. Where exactly Ryan had planned on going was a bit of a mystery to Brendon. Ryan left at nearly three in the fucking morning. It was what? About six, a little earlier. Chances were Ryan was still wandering around Clearfield alone in the cold night without a place in the world to go. Only a place he was desperate to stay away from. Watching the sunrise on his own. 

Ryan Ross in his tight suspenders with those fading bruises on his face walking down the street alone in the cold night air and staring at the horizon, admiring the pink and orange that poured across the sky like spilled paint. Doing whatever he could to keep away from Brendon Urie. 

Brendon should have at least lent Ryan a coat. He would have felt significantly better if Ryan had a coat. 

Was Ryan even coming back? What if he had left with no intentions of ever returning? Poof, gone. Just like that. Ryan Ross out of sight, out of mind. 

He wouldn’t. There was no way. 

Ryan wouldn’t leave Brendon stranded like this. Alone on his sofa with dried tear tracks down his face, a cigarette clutched in his fingers, and a terrible decision to be made. Ryan Ross wasn’t that cruel a man.

Decisions. 

If Brendon had to choose between Ryan and Dallon—which really was a horrible position to be put in—who would he pick? Why would two people want him in the first place? Even more jarring, those two people were Dallon Weekes and Ryan Ross. The kindest, quietest people he knew. They chose him. They wanted _him_. Why? For the life of him, Brendon couldn't figure it out. 

Pros and cons. Pros and cons. 

Ryan knew Brendon was gay now and Ryan had kissed him. Ryan tasted like sugar and Brendon had a serious sweet tooth. Two very good things. But, at the same time, Ryan hadn’t ever been with a man before. Ryan didn’t know anything about being gay. He didn’t know about the trials and tribulations that came with it. He hadn’t been called a faggot before and he hadn’t had to laugh and play it off like that wasn’t exactly what he was. Ryan was as sweet as sweet could be. He hadn’t had sex with a single girl in France. 

Had Ryan ever had sex at all?

Brendon’s body went rigid as he sat there on his couch. He had no idea. Ryan dated that Elizabeth girl for well over three years. Surely they had had sex at some juncture. Brendon would make a point to ask when Ryan came back. Or maybe that was a bad idea. Might be a bad plan to gush out the moment he saw Ryan walk through the door, ‘Oh thank God you’re back! I’ve been sitting up crying and worrying my damn head off! Hey, odd question for you real quick—and I’m so happy you came back, again; I'm glad you're alive—are you a virgin?’

No. No, Brendon wasn’t an idiot; he wasn’t going to fling that into the conversation out of the blue. There were some things you didn’t ask a man a few hours after you broke off a kiss with him. 

If Brendon was a smarter man, he would know that Dallon was the obvious choice. Dallon was stable and he was warmhearted and tall and very handsome. And he knew the life of a homosexual. He knew what went into it, the hassles it brought. And he had a clean mouth with smooth lips that felt good when Brendon kissed him. And he was Brendon’s best friend. Brendon _needed_ him. 

But Ryan? Ryan had those shatter-me whiskey eyes and bashful smile. Ryan, who didn’t talk down to Brendon when he cried. Ryan, who fought with him in France for three years. Ryan Ross, who was Ryan Ross and that was reason enough to love him. 

Brendon took an unsteady drag of his cigarette and pulled back, shaking it out lightly so ash fell onto his trousers and when he blew the smoke out of his mouth, it caught in the back of his throat and he coughed. For smoking so goddamn much, he wasn’t all that good at it. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, wiped a hand over his face, and at that moment the front door squeaked open. Brendon snapped his head up, already rising from the chair as the door swung ajar to reveal Ryan Ross with his eyes directed at his orval shoes. 

He didn’t appear to be in bad shape—no new bruises to speak of and his limp was hardly noticeable; Brendon wouldn’t have even known he had one if he hadn’t looked for it—as he stepped inside, turning away from Brendon to close the door with both hands. 

It made a soft click and Ryan hovered for an extra second with his hands flat against it before he slid them off and turned back around. Brendon stood in front of the couch, holding his cigarette at his side. 

“Hi,” Brendon said. His voice was rough, scratchy. 

Ryan tilted his head in reply. He didn’t look at Brendon but past him at the window. “Hey.”

Brendon swallowed. He didn’t know what he wanted to say but he knew he had to say something. “We need to talk.”

Ryan nodded warily. “I know we do.”

They stood across from each other; Ryan placed his hands behind his back on the door and leaned into them. Brendon held his cigarette at his side and kept his feet planted firmly on the floor. He wasn’t going to budge. Not unless he had to. 

He didn’t have a speech prepared. Didn’t have an answer and he didn’t know how to get to one. He flicked his tongue out to wet his lips. 

“Where’ve you been?” He asked. Best to change the subject now. Maybe he could distract Ryan long enough to figure out what he wanted to say. What he needed to. 

“Out,” Ryan replied curtly. 

“I know that, fathead.” Brendon folded his arms. Why was Ryan going to make this harder than it needed to be? Why was he already trying to pick a fight? They hadn’t even begun the conversation. “Out where?”

Ryan glanced to the ceiling. “The Church.”

Brendon raised his brows skeptically. “It’s not open.”

“Eric and Jon were still there,” Ryan explained, tracing the ceiling with his eyes as if he were trying to memorize a pattern that wasn’t there. "They let me hang around." 

Brendon shifted. Less firm. “You met Eric?”

“Uh huh.” Ryan nodded and he continued not to look at Brendon. “Nice guy.”

“Yeah…” Eric. Ryan had met Eric. What did that mean? What would that meeting have entailed? Eric was a very… boisterous fellow. There was no telling what he could have told Ryan. What secrets he could have let slip. The man had _no_ filter. Brendon opened his mouth to ask what exactly Ryan had found out from Eric but, before he could, Ryan was already speaking again in a more serious tone. 

“You said we needed to talk.” He didn’t sound as though he was in the mood to dance around the subject. 

“I did, yeah.” Brendon shook his head to clear his mind. _Focus. Stay focused. Say what you need to._ He needed to talk to Ryan about the kiss. About Dallon. About them. What the future had in store. Not that he had any clue whatsoever what that entailed. What was the easy way to say, _I love you but I love Dallon too but in a different way than I’m supposed to and I don’t want to jeopardize either of these things because I need you both and, by the way, are you a virgin?_

“Well?” Ryan pulled a hand from behind his back to gesture to Brendon. “Talk, then.”

“I—” Brendon blinked. Swallowed. The truth was the best story to tell. He hung his arms limply at his sides, shoulders slouching, and his cigarette bumped against his trousers, dirtying them with a dot of ash. “I don’t exactly have anything planned.”

“I don’t either.” Ryan shrugged and drew his eyes to the stain on Brendon’s trousers. “Doesn’t matter. Just say what you wanna say and we’ll make sense of it.”

“I don’t know what I want to say,” Brendon confessed hopelessly. He didn’t. He didn’t know if he wanted to tell Ryan he was in love with him or if it was a better idea not to get involved at all. Best to keep a confession of love to himself. Dallon was the safe choice. Dallon was the right choice. 

“Then why did you want to talk?” Ryan sounded irritated and he still wasn’t looking at Brendon’s face. “If you don’t know what you’re going to say?”

“I know we need to,” Brendon answered. 

“Okay.” Ryan’s voice was sharp and his whiskey eyes narrowed. “Then _talk_.”

Brendon’s heart was pounding in his chest and he could feel the pulse of blood through his wrists and in his ears. What the hell was he meant to say? What did he want to say? So many things. So many things that couldn’t be expressed in the English language. There weren’t enough words. He needed a way to say, _I’m in love with you, Ryan, I really truly am but you’re not gay and Dallon—Dallon means so much to me, Ryan. I need him. I need you both._

“Talk dammit!” Ryan shouted. 

Brendon flinched back in surprise. 

He hadn’t expected Ryan to yell at him. Hadn’t expected Ryan to yell at all. Had Brendon ever heard him yell before? Not that he could remember. What happened to that boy? 

There was a part of Brendon that wanted to yell right back. To tell Ryan off for raising his voice. He knew it was confusing. He knew it was stressful. It was arguably more so for Brendon. He was the one choosing between two people. He was the one breaking hearts. What did Ryan have to be upset about?

“Ryan.” Brendon lowered his voice. “Are you alright?”

“I’m _peachy_.” Ryan let his voice tilt into a small chuckle like the word was funny to him. As if it held some sort of meaning Brendon couldn’t decipher. “How’re you feeling, Bren?”

Brendon sighed. “Pretty awful, Ry, to be honest.”

“Amazing.” Ryan clapped his hands together once and swiped them on his pants like he had something he needed to get off him. Brendon didn’t know why. He was the one with ash on his trousers. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way; could you kindly tell me what you wanna fucking tell me?”

Brendon blinked, his eyebrows raised high. What the hell was wrong with him? Ryan was finally staring at Brendon in the face with round, demanding whiskey eyes that were tinted red at the corners. He might’ve been smoking earlier. But Ryan didn’t smoke; maybe Eric did. Or Jon after hours. Brendon was desperate to know what their conversation was about, but Ryan didn’t seem eager to talk about it. Ryan didn’t seem very _eager_ to talk about anything. 

Ryan wanted an answer that Brendon didn’t have for him. 

“Dallon is my best friend. I _need_ him. I can’t lose him. I can’t, Ryan,” Brendon said quietly, annunciating the words carefully. That wasn’t the answer. That wasn’t anywhere close to what he wanted to say or what he should have. It was a bumpy start but he could get there. He could build up to what he really wanted to say. Not that he knew what that was. But a start was better than a dead end. 

However, Ryan seemed to take that as an answer in itself. Didn’t act like he wanted to hear anything else. He just nodded his head once robotically and scoffed. A deep, gravelly sound from the back of his throat that barely constituted as a laugh at all. 

“Okay,” Ryan said, rigid. “Alright.”

“Okay?” Brendon repeated, staring. This wasn’t what he wanted. 

“Okay,” Ryan shot back and pushed himself from the door, walking through the sitting room and past Brendon. Over his shoulder, he said, “That’s what I needed to hear.”

Brendon walked in a circle to follow him as Ryan exited right out of the sitting room and Brendon’s presence straight back into the bedroom. Brendon couldn’t place the words he wanted to say as he watched Ryan go directly to the corner of the room where his bag was kept and scoop it up into his arms. 

“What are you doing?” Brendon asked, watching Ryan fling the sack onto Brendon’s bed and unzip it loudly. Made a show of it.

“I’m packing,” Ryan answered as though it was obvious, reaching out to the bedside table to grab a plastic pack of—Were those army men? Those must have been the toy soldiers Ryan had mentioned buying from the toy store. Brendon wondered how he hadn’t seen them until that moment. 

“Packing?” Brendon chorused, solidifying his posture in surprise. “What do you mean you’re packing?”

“I mean,” Ryan dragged on, shoving the toy soldiers into the pack before turning and walking back into the sitting room with Brendon following after hurriedly. “Is that I’m packing up my bag so I can take everything with me. Would be pretty stupid if I decided to leave everything here. Go back without it.”

“Back?” Brendon asked, alarmed. “Back where? What do you mean?”

Ryan took his baby bible—folded at the edges and ratty—from the coffee table and held it loosely as he walked back into the bedroom. He didn’t bother to flick the light switch on but the sun had almost fully risen and it was light enough to see clearly in the small room. Light enough that Brendon could perfectly make out Ryan pack his things to leave him. 

Ryan stuffed the book into the side pocket of his pack. He said, straight-laced, and it sounded like he had something to hide, “I mean I’m leaving.” 

Brendon’s blood ran cold in his veins. His voice came out a whisper, “You’re what?”

“I’m leaving.” Ryan started to scour around the darkened room for anything that might be his. Anything else of himself he could take back from Brendon. “I am vacating the premises. Going on to greener pastures. Heading elsewhere. I’m going, Brendon, is what I mean. I’m leaving.”

“ _What_?” Brendon’s voice raised of his own accord and he walked towards Ryan in two long strides so when Ryan stood up there was only a foot or so separating them. Ryan tried to take a step back and found the corner of the bedroom. Brendon shook his head, speaking again, “You can’t do that.”

“To Hell I can’t,” Ryan returned, eyes dark. Daring Brendon to get any closer. “I can do whatever I want to do. Thus—” He waved a hand at Brendon that made him take a step back so Ryan could shove by. “Leaving.”

Brendon followed him back into the sitting room. He didn’t want to have to keep doing this; stalking around through the house between the same two rooms over and over, chasing after Ryan how a mother went after her toddler. What the hell was Ryan on about? He wasn’t leaving. There was no way he was leaving. He wouldn’t. He _couldn’t_. Brendon wouldn’t let him. 

“You can’t leave,” Brendon stressed again and Ryan turned swiftly. Again, their bodies were too close. 

“Why not?” He snapped. The bruising on his face was nearly healed. “It’s not like you need me here.”

Oh. So that’s what it was. Ryan was delusional. Brendon’s jaw couldn’t help but drop. He asked, loudly, “What in the hell gave you that idea?”

“What didn’t?” Ryan retorted, throwing his empty hands up. “You’re clearly in love with Dallon.”

Brendon rolled his eyes indignantly. He wasn’t. Nothing was clear about this situation. How dare Ryan think he had it figured out. “I’m not in love with Dallon.”

“Why not?” Ryan rushed out. It was a new tone. A woeful change. “He’s the obvious choice. I mean, why the hell would it be me?”

“Ryan—” Brendon started, a pathetic turn to his gut. Guilt. 

“No, no, I get it; I do.” Ryan raised his hands. Brendon didn’t know exactly what he was surrendering to but it looked as though he meant it. “You need him. You _have_ him. What the hell am I? I’m just the guy you let stay in your bed for a week. I’m nothing. And it’s always been that way and it always will be. You don’t need me.”

“Ryan, you’re being dramatic,” Brendon kept his voice low. Tried to sound as calm as possible. “None of that’s true and you know it.”

“We’ve kissed once,” Ryan continued on, completely ignoring what Brendon had said. “And you and him—How many times have you kissed Dallon?”

“Seven,” Brendon answered. Maybe eight. He didn’t know for sure. 

“It’s simple math then,” Ryan acknowledged. There was something frantic in his eyes, hysterical. “I lift right out.”

Brendon was still holding his cigarette at his side. He frowned uneasily. Why was Ryan acting the way he was? What had Eric said to him? Brendon asked, cautiously, “Ryan, do you need to sit down?”

“No,” Ryan spat and he paced back a step. As if Brendon was going to try and grab him. “I do not need to _sit_ down. I’m fine.” 

“You’re obviously not,” Brendon replied carefully. 

It was painfully obvious how unhinged Ryan was, staring back at Brendon with wild eyes, fingers twitching beside his legs, trying to decide if they wanted to turn to fists or not. Brendon tried to keep his voice was caring as he could. He did need Ryan. He needed Ryan. Three years in France, it was Ryan and no one else. Only Ryan Ross who marched right beside him and made him smile. A boy that made wishes with him at a creek and sat beside him when he took dead man rings. A boy that lent him a smoke when he cried. Brendon needed Ryan more than he needed anyone else. Why didn’t he know that? 

“What happened?” Brendon asked. "Ryan, what happened?" 

“I have to leave,” was what Ryan said back like a broken record. His expression was haunted. “I have to.”

“Why?” Brendon stressed and he risked a step towards Ryan. 

Ryan didn’t back away from him but he wavered barely on his feet and Brendon stopped his advance. There was a beat of silence between the two and then Ryan said, quiet, with a hard squint of his eyes, “My dad died.”

Brendon let his body slack. “What?”

“Three days now, according to Z. My dad’s dead and I wasn’t even there to see him croak.” Ryan’s body looked weak, a twig knocked around in the wind, and he swayed on his feet, ready to tip. 

“Ryan,” Brendon said and he extended the hand not holding a cigarette. “Please, sit down.”

Ryan didn’t protest that time, letting Brendon take him by the forearm loosely and lead him to the couch where the two sat down on the musky cushions. Ryan’s entire body seemed drained of any fight that had been in him prior and he slouched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He was shaking his head back and forth like a pendulum. It was similar to how he had looked the first day he appeared in Clearfield. The day Brendon had thought of him as nothing more than breakable. 

“You wanna smoke?” Brendon offered gently, holding up his cigarette. 

Ryan glanced at it and he started to shake his head before he decided against it and, with no words, took the cigarette from Brendon’s fingers, raised it to his lips, and took a heavy drag. 

Two times Ryan Ross ever smoked a cigarette. Once when it was Christmas of ‘44 and Brendon sat under a dilapidated house and cried while Ryan was there to offer up a smoke and his companionship. Christmas of '44 and the two of them had sat and talked in stilted speech, listening to the rain fall. And twice now. September of 1945 when his father hit the bucket and he wasn’t there to see it. The same day he kissed Brendon Urie. 

Ryan nursed the cigarette at a hesitant pace, holding it with both hands to his mouth like someone might try to take it from him and Brendon reached out to his pack of camels resting on the coffee table, lighting himself a new one and leaning back into the cushions. He sat beside Ryan in silence—similar to Christmas—smoking languidly with him, puffs of grey parting from their mouths and mixing in the air. 

“When’s the funeral?” Brendon asked, watching the smoke mingle. 

Ryan took in a shaky breath. “Don’t know yet. They need me in Vegas to finalize things. I need to be there for it.”

Brendon tried to keep himself calm. Ryan needed to leave. It was his family. He had an obligation. He needed to plan a funeral for his father. He needed to leave. But Brendon didn’t want him to. He couldn’t go. Ryan was not allowed to leave. Not yet. Brendon opened his mouth to speak but, before he could, Ryan interrupted again. 

“My house is under his name, Bren. I’ve gotta make arrangements. Sell it o-or something. Really, honestly, I need to live in it and get a job over there. Z talked about me maybe working for her father. I have a lot to do, Bren. I have so much I need to do.” He looked up at Brendon with tired eyes, red at the corners and Brendon knew it wasn’t from smoking but he didn’t say anything. Wasn’t his place. There was a flash of anger. Ryan asked, “God, d’you know how selfish it is to die? You make all these messes; always getting other people to clean up after you and then one day you drop. You’re just gone, and those people are still stuck picking up your shit.”

He wiped a trembling hand over his face. Brendon didn’t like how Ryan looked. Frail and shaky with smoke pouring from his mouth and his eyes tinted red. Ryan looked fragile. Glass about to shatter. 

Ryan’s lips parted to let smoke out and Brendon watched. He wanted to kiss Ryan again. Mix breaths of smoke together between their mouths, trade it off. He wanted to kiss him and ask him if he was a virgin. 

But he said nothing out loud and, when Ryan took another breath from his cigarette, Brendon did the same. 

“You’re right,” Brendon said in agreement. “Selfish thing to die.”

“He couldn’t have waited just a bit longer?” Ryan lamented drearily. “He had to go and do it in the middle of this shit? I mean, _fuck_ , Bren. I couldn’t have fashioned a worse day if I tried.”

He laughed then, suddenly, and it was really more of a cough than it was a real sound and smoke billowed from his lips into the air between them. Brendon cringed back on the couch in surprise at the outburst. 

Brendon tried to smile but it didn’t quite work as he waved a hand to get rid of the smoke between them. He said, “You’re right. This day’s been pretty shit.”

“ _Pretty_ shit?” Ryan repeated mockingly, the scoff fresh on his lips. “Bren, I can’t think of what would have made this day worse. Except me _actually_ dying. Well, that might have been better, you know. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this.”

It wasn’t a very funny joke—Brendon didn’t want Ryan to die—but a grin cracked over Ryan’s face so Brendon was obligated to return it with a half chuckle. 

“I’m sorry,” Brendon said after a moment. “About your dad.”

“Thanks,” Ryan returned. He kicked his foot against the carpet. “I guess I am too.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t know.” Ryan hung his hands between his legs and stared down at his cigarette. His eyebrows angled up and for a second Brendon thought he might start crying. “It’s not like he ever did jackshit for me. He got me a house; that’s the best thing he ever did. I love my house, Bren. I love my house.”

He sounded desperate. Brendon’s heart was aching for him. 

“And—I don’t know Bren, I never cared about him. I never have. I don’t think I ever will. But now it’s just—It’s so obvious that I’m never gonna get that.”

“Get what?” Brendon asked faintly.

Ryan tried to make his voice dramatic but the red lacing his eyes made it impossible to see anything he said as a joke. “Dare I say love.”

Brendon’s heart constricted in his chest. He shifted closer to Ryan so their knees touched on the couch but their bodies still angled back from one another. He kept his cigarette tightly in his hand. “Your dad was a fucking shit, Ry.”

“You said that before.” Ryan smiled lamely. 

“And I’ll say it again.” Brendon’s voice was strong, making up for the weakness Ryan displayed. “Your dad was a fucking shit and he didn’t deserve anything. Certainly not you.” 

Ryan nodded. He looked at his cigarette when he took a drag. “Thanks.”

“You shouldn’t waste time mourning a person who doesn’t deserve it,” Brendon told him. “Don’t waste time on that man.”

“But—” Ryan swallowed thickly. “He was my _dad_ , y'know? And no matter how shit he was… I didn’t… I don’t have anyone else.”

“Bullshit,” Brendon stated. “You have people; don’t think for a second you don’t.” 

Ryan looked up at him instantly, eyes glistening. There was a question there that Brendon knew the answer to. He knew it so clearly.

Brendon said with more conviction—and he was sure of it this time, “You have _me_.” 

He leaned forward, not caring how awkward the angle was, their knees knocking together as he shortened the distance between them until their noses bumped and breath danced together between their mouths. Ryan exhaled and smoke hit Brendon’s lips, fiery hot. 

And then, as Brendon tilted his head to kiss him—sure he wanted to—Ryan pulled away. 

Brendon sat up in surprise at the denial and Ryan stood, stepping away from the couch in one rushed motion, knocking his ankle on the corner of the coffee table. 

“What the hell?” Ryan demanded before Brendon could say anything. 

Part of Brendon thought it was best to stand, to reach out to Ryan, but he saw whiskey eyes dart around and it almost appeared as though Ryan was trapped, a bird in a cage, and Brendon stayed seated. He looked after Ryan worriedly as Ryan shook his head in disbelief, his eyes widened. 

“I’m serious, Brendon, what the hell? I-I kiss you and you push me away and you tell me you and Dallon are together and then? Then you tell me you need him but all of a sudden you say that I have you; which I’m definitely sure I don’t. And you-you try to kiss me?” His voice was growing frantic and the way he stared at Brendon was nothing short of fear. “Brendon, what do you _want_?” 

“You,” Brendon answered because it really was that simple. "I want you." 

That’s all he wanted. He didn’t want any more guilty kisses with Dallon in closets because he knew he didn’t love him. He didn’t want to lead on Dallon and he didn’t want to hurt him. He wanted to tell Dallon that he didn’t love him. 

He wanted Ryan. No one else. He wanted to sleep with him and hold him close and kiss him and learn every little thing about him he never had the chance to before. He wanted Ryan possibly more than he had ever wanted anything else. 

Ryan glanced away and inhaled deeply into his chest. “Brendon, can I tell you something honestly?”

“Of course you can,” Brendon said, all to craving. “Anything. Please.” 

Ryan didn’t look at him when he said, “I’m in love with you. I am. Really, I am. And I have been for a while, and I think I will be for the foreseeable future. So I really need you to not fuck with my emotions here.” 

Ryan said he loved him. Ryan Ross said he loved him. Brendon’s head was spinning. No one had ever told him they loved him before. Not seriously. His mother sure, and his siblings every now then. Never a romantic partner. He had never been with someone long enough to constitute love. But Ryan? Ryan said he loved him. Ryan Ross loved him. His mouth couldn’t seem to work but his thoughts were there. _I’m in love with you too. Fuck, I am. I am, Ryan. Really, I am. Yes. Say it again. Say it again, please_. However, none of those words were said out loud and Ryan continued not to look at him and just stand there, rambling on.

“But-but you have Dallon. And he’s a good guy, he is. Even Eric says so. And I don’t—” Ryan shook his head and fisted both hands into his hair. “I don’t want you to make some spur of the moment decision just because you feel _bad_ for me because my dad died and I’m standing here about to fucking cry—”

“Bad for you?” Brendon repeated, alarmed, and Ryan finally jerked his head up to look at him straight on. Brendon shook his head rapidly. “Ryan, I don’t want to kiss you because I _feel bad_ for you. I want to kiss you because I want to kiss you. It’s not some convoluted thing.”

“Then why would—” Ryan paused. “You _wanted_ to kiss me?”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since you showed up on my doorstep looking like you walked right back out of France, you moron,” Brendon said and a smile tugged at his lips. 

Ryan appeared shocked. He sounded like a child when he spoke, so young and hopeful, “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Brendon laughed. 

“Goddamn,” Ryan whispered and Brendon laughed again. Ryan’s lips were starting to curl up hesitantly in a grin. It was a perfect smile. So few smiles in the world were flawless. Ryan should have felt lucky he had one. “Eric was right.”

“Oh, what did that dumbass tell you?” Brendon asked, rolling his eyes. There were about a hundred things Eric Ronick could have said, all of them at least partially incriminating. 

“Said I was an idiot, first off.” Ryan chuckled. “Which I am; I'll give him that. And he said you wanted to kiss me. And that uh—He showed me your song.”

“My song?” Brendon’s smile fell, replaced with bewilderment. 

“Former love,” Ryan supplied. He shifted on his feet. “He said it was about me.” 

There was a pause. 

“Was it?” He prompted. “About me?”

Brendon blinked a couple of times. “It was about a lot of things b-but yeah. Mostly… Mostly it was about you.”

“Former love…” Ryan gestured loosely with the hand holding his cigarette and a stream of smoke followed after. “Insinuates something past. And we didn’t—We were never—”

“Do you think I just started loving you this week?” Brendon interrupted incredulously. 

Ryan’s mouth shut abruptly. Then he squinted, and Brendon could watch the wheels in his brain turning around and trying to make sense of what he had said. Brendon silently reprimanded his mouth for saying it how he had. There were a million better ways to have said that. A million better ways to say ‘I love you.’ Brendon hadn't ever said it before. He didn't know how it was supposed to be said. What the definition was. Had he really just told Ryan he loved him?

Ryan licked at his lips. “You… you love me?”

Brendon waited for a second to reply, all his cards spread out on the table between them; everything he had to offer handed over as he said in a breath, “Of _course_ I love you.” 

Ryan stared for a second. The air that wafted between them was stale with smoke and the apartment smelled of ash. Brendon should have opened the window up before he started smoking. He looked at Ryan expectantly. It was his turn. Lay a card down. 

Ryan took a step forward, still not as confident as he should have been. Then he bent over to stub his cigarette out in the ashtray that rested on the table. He glanced up at Brendon. “I’d like to kiss you now, if that’s alright.”

Brendon laughed abruptly, shaking his head. Ryan Ross. Fucking Ryan Ross. That boy had to know what he was doing. “I think that’ll be fine, yeah.” 

Without another word, Ryan stepped between the coffee table and the couch. He reached down to take Brendon by the shoulders, one hand on either side of Brendon’s face. His fingers slid up Brendon’s neck to cup his jaw and he pulled Brendon forward, Brendon craning his neck up, and connected their lips. 

It was a softer kiss than it could have been. No panic or necessity in a kiss like that. It was kind and slow and Ryan tasted like smoke and Tom Collins. Brendon smiled into the kiss, reaching up to take the back of Ryan’s neck to pull him closer. 

Ryan made a small noise in the back of his throat as he tripped over the couch, knees pressing into the fabric and his body leaning on Brendon, using his shoulders as support. 

Ryan parted from the kiss only a centimeter, noses bumping. 

“Lean back,” he directed. 

Brendon did as instructed, not taking his roaming hands off of Ryan, dragging him into another kiss as he shifted his position on the sofa, leaning his head against the cushioned arm. Ryan did his best to clamber onto the couch over Brendon while not removing his hands from Brendon’s neck nor his lips from Brendon’s own. 

His knee bumped roughly into Brendon’s side and Brendon grunted at the impact, teeth clicking with Ryan’s. 

Ryan slowed, tilting back from Brendon’s mouth, forehead creasing. “Are you oka—”

“I’m fine, I’m fine; shut up,” Brendon insisted, tugging at Ryan’s neck to get their mouths together. 

Ryan laughed as their lips met again. He shifted to get better into place, lying on top of Brendon, legs bent on either side as he sat on Brendon’s waist, just above where his belt was. He lay forward until their chests were nearly touching, hands on either side of Brendon’s neck as they kissed. His fingers were long and cold from the air outside as the pads dug into Brendon's skin.

Brendon’s nerves were tingling, burning him straight through. _Amazing_ , his brain chanted over and over. _This feels amazing. Don’t make him stop_. Brendon didn’t have any intentions to. He kept one hand on the back of Ryan’s neck and the other hand moved to rest on Ryan’s chest. His shirt hung off his thin stomach and Brendon crumpled the fabric in his fist. 

The kisses they shared were open-mouthed, warm and damp against Brendon’s tongue and he thought how tentative Ryan’s lips were when they kissed, posing a new question every time, how well they fit his own and how perfect the weight on top of him Ryan’s body provided was. Like he was meant to be there. 

Ryan must have known what Brendon was thinking as he shifted his body, thighs pressed tight to Brendon’s sides. Suddenly, however, he sat back onto Brendon’s belt and—while it made Brendon let out a surprised exhale—Ryan sat up, raising off of Brendon with a small curse. 

“Ouch,” he grumbled, moving so he sat on Brendon’s thighs, below his waist, and Brendon was getting severely irritated with pain interrupting his perfectly good kissing session. 

Brendon didn’t say anything, just removed his hands from Ryan’s neck and chest, reaching down to his pants. His fingers scrambled to undo his belt and Ryan sat there, staring down at Brendon’s hands and the belt sliding out of the loops. There was a type of astonishment in his eyes as he watched Brendon remove his belt and toss it to the floor beside the couch, glistening lips barely parted. 

With the offending garment safely on the ground and away from the pair, Brendon focused back on Ryan and the expression he had. Dazed eyes and shimmering lips.

“Hey,” Brendon said, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“Hi,” Ryan answered, looking back to him and he smiled. 

“C’mere,” Brendon beckoned and Ryan did so, crawling forward again, skating his hands up Brendon’s sweater, and this time he could sit comfortably, right on top of Brendon’s crotch. The pressure was immediately noticeable and Brendon let out a low groan that Ryan swallowed into his mouth as his lips found Brendon’s again. 

The kiss was different than the first two, more similar to the need the first kiss they had shared was like, all breathing and Brendon’s hands back into Ryan’s hair, grabbing where they could. Ryan let him and suddenly Brendon felt the sensation of cold fingers beneath his sweater on his bare stomach. 

_Yes_ , he thought. _Absolutely, yes_. 

He only let Ryan get halfway up his chest before he was squirming, taking his hands from Ryan’s hair and instead hooking them beneath his sweater and undershirt so he could wriggle out of them both at the same time. He wasn’t going to waste more time than necessary. He needed skin on skin. He needed the heat Ryan’s body provided and he needed it now.

Ryan sat up again, but this time didn’t move to Brendon’s thighs, instead sitting squarely on top of his fly and with that position, there was no way he didn’t know how hard Brendon already was. 

Brendon did his best not to move too quickly as he shucked his sweater and undershirt off—almost choking himself when his dog tag got caught—dumping them over the top of his belt on the floor.

This time when Ryan looked at him, it was most assuredly awe. His eyes skimmed over Brendon’s figure as if he’d never seen him shirtless before. Over the V of his hips and the dip of his navel up to his clavicle and chest where his dog tag lay in a tangled mess. Ryan peered down at him as if he’d never seen a human being before. 

“I never told you before,” Ryan started, his voice ever so low and he swallowed thickly. “What my wish at the creek was; you remember?” 

Of course Brendon remembered and he nodded, holding Ryan in his gaze even though Ryan continued to stare at his bare torso. He traced his long fingers up Brendon’s abdomen, featherlight, and Brendon let out a small breath as he did so. 

“That was when I knew for sure I wanted to kiss you,” Ryan continued on in that heavy voice and his palm lay flat on Brendon’s stomach, cold fingers that burned wherever they landed. He took Brendon's dog tag between his fingers, turning it over and laying it flat. _Brendon Urie_ , it read. “My wish was that you weren’t so goddamn pretty.”

Brendon choked himself on a laugh. His face was hot like he was blushing but he knew he wasn’t. He didn’t blush. Certainly not in front of Ryan Ross. Ryan finally looked up at his eyes, pleased with himself if the shit-eating grin was anything to go by. 

“You are,” Ryan said and he bent forward, kissing Brendon sweetly on the mouth. His next words were spoken directly against Brendon’s lips. “You’re beautiful.”

Brendon let his throat bob when his breath hitched, and surely Ryan’s hand on his stomach felt that too, the way his body arched. He kissed Ryan for a moment, easy and with no rush, before he huffed out into Ryan’s mouth, “You are too.”

He ran his hands up Ryan’s thighs before he continued up to Ryan’s own belt buckle. Ryan didn’t protest when Brendon unhooked it, not breaking the kiss when he slid the belt from its loops and threw it to the floor where the other clothes were steadily piling up. 

And he didn’t protest when Brendon unclipped his suspenders and slipped them over his arms. 

Ryan was sitting on top of Brendon’s crotch, heavy, and his hands were on Brendon’s bare torso, exploring and mapping out the body before him. 

Brendon got his hands into the bottom of Ryan’s shirt, tugging at it harshly to get it untucked and out of his pants. Ryan didn’t move to help him but he didn’t stop him either when Brendon began to undo the buttons of the white shirt from the bottom up. 

It felt like half an eternity before Brendon had finally gotten all the buttons out and then Ryan was sitting there on top of him with his shirt open and loose around his scrawny form, his belt gone, and his suspenders hanging limply off of him. 

He moved his hands off of Brendon’s chest to pull the shirt off himself, dumping it to the floor. 

Ryan sat on top of him, shirtless, and his ribs were visible beneath milky, white skin. He had a nice curve to his sides where his body met his hips. Not as pronounced as Brendon's body shape, but noticeable. His collar bones were protruding and his hip bones were sharp—Brendon bet they could leave a nasty bruise if they hit something hard enough. Ryan really was beautiful. He was. And Brendon wondered if he had ever wanted anything so badly before. 

Ryan didn't let Brendon admire his figure any further as he bent down to Brendon again but ignored his mouth this time and kissed at Brendon's collar bones, jaw open and his tongue plunging into the dips of Brendon's flesh. Brendon sighed, moving his hands to Ryan's skin, bare and beautiful and smooth, trailing his hand up Ryan's back. He could feel the vertebrae in his spine. 

Ryan was sitting on top of Brendon Urie with no shirt, leaned over him and licking at his neck and clavicle. His weight was substantial and oppressive on Brendon’s fly and Brendon’s pants were not loose enough; far too tight around him. Brendon needed them off. He needed his pants off and he needed Ryan’s off too and he needed _Ryan_. 

“Ryan, Ryan,” he breathed out, panting, and put a hand between them—between their bare chests that had barely had the chance to touch yet—to push them apart again, taking Ryan's exploring tongue with him. One day, he would stop having to do that. 

Ryan moved back reluctantly but didn’t sit up all the way. He asked in a wheeze, licking over his lips with that same tongue, “Yeah?”

“I want you,” Brendon said, darting his eyes all over Ryan’s face. He was out of breath already. How did Ryan manage that? Brendon hadn't had sex in a long time. Six months at least. “I want you in every way I know how to have a person. But I have to ask—I have to before we do anything; you said you weren’t with any girls in France. Are you a virgin?”

Ryan blinked his eyes in momentary shock at the question—Brendon staring at him expectantly—before he shook his head. “No. I’ve been—I’ve been with girls before. Well, _girl_. Singular. One girl. One time.”

Of course. Ryan Ross was sweet. Brendon shouldn't have forgotten that. Sweet like sugar and he hadn’t had sex with a single girl in France, only one time had he had intercourse and it was with a girl he planned to marry. Brendon didn’t deserve this. Brendon was not worthy of Ryan Ross’s sensitivity or caring nature. No one was. 

Brendon took in a heaving breath, his chest moving up and down beneath Ryan’s weight. Hesitantly he said, “Ryan—”

He couldn’t think of how to say it without blurting the request outright. And it was as he was trying to think of how best to phrase what he wanted to say that Ryan rolled his hips unexpectedly against his, a rough friction, and Brendon groaned involuntarily, the sound coming from deep in his stomach. 

He was hard—Ryan was hard. 

“If I asked you to fuck me, would you?” Brendon exclaimed in one swift motion, eyelids fluttering. He didn’t care how it sounded. 

“Yeah.” It was a breath and Ryan bent to kiss him again. A hot and wet exchange of their mouths as Ryan ground their hips together again, eliciting a sharp breath from Brendon. “I will.” 

And Brendon didn’t deserve it; he didn’t. But he was too greedy not to take what had been offered to him.


	29. Yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And to your left, you will find a fanfic chapter comprised almost entirely of smut.  
> Please enjoy and keep your arms, hands, and genitals inside the cart at all times.

Ryan Ross had only ever slept with a girl twice. Both times it was Elizabeth Berg and only one of those times had involved the act of sex. Which wasn’t a problem, he thought. It never had been before. Ryan Ross just wasn’t the sort of man that wanted to have sex. It didn’t have to be a big deal. He just had different preferences than others. 

Sex had never been something that he was keen on. Which was odd, yes, and sometimes it worried him that he wasn’t as infatuated with intercourse as his male counterparts were. It was all boys could talk about when he was in Highschool; Spencer worst of all. Ryan wondered why he couldn’t be normal; why he wasn’t constantly yearning after every girl he saw like every other boy. 

Spencer—as did many boys—lost his virginity when he was sixteen. Plucked the ever elusive flower and threw caution to the wind. And he talked about it non-stop for _weeks_ after it happened. As though it was some incredible, life-altering experience and Ryan simply wasn’t as much of a man as Spencer because he hadn’t lost his yet. Spencer bragged on about it for hours at a time; how good it was, how good _he_ was. And Ryan had simply sat and listened to his fairy tales. 

That’s really all they were to him. Fairy tales. People didn’t actually have sex in Ryan Ross’s world. It was a foreign concept. His father never bothered to sit him down and have a lengthy discussion about it, so the whole subject was taboo. What exactly was sex? Ryan didn’t know. And, with the way Spencer described it, Ryan wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

Spencer told him stories of a girl moaning his name, screaming it into the night and raking claw marks into his back. Ryan didn’t like that so much, nor did he understand why you would want to make someone else scream or have them tear at your skin. Sounded painful to him.

Spencer made it sound like losing his virginity was the best thing to ever happen to him, but Ryan disagreed. Ryan didn’t want to lose his virginity; he didn’t want to lose anything. 

Ryan Ross understood wanting to be with a girl. Maybe not intimately, but he wanted to date one. If nothing else, just so he could hold the title of ‘having girlfriend.’ Because if you ‘had girlfriend’ you weren’t so much of a loser. 

But he didn’t want to have sex with a girl. Ryan wanted to date a pretty girl and make her laugh at stupid things and kiss her on the cheek—maybe the lips every now and again if she would let him—and buy her flowers. Was that really so much to ask?

A few weeks after Spencer had lost his virginity in 1938, Ryan sat and listened to him talk about it yet again and suddenly, because Ryan was nodding, Spencer had asked him, “Oh? You too then? Well c’mon, Ryan, don’t keep it a secret. What was it like when you popped your cherry?”

And Ryan had stared back at him, unsure why he would lie and responded, “I haven’t yet. I don’t really plan to.”

“What?” Spencer had asked him, drawing his brows together.

“I don’t want to have sex,” Ryan had said. And it had been the truth. 

Ryan Ross was sixteen years old; he was much too young to have sex. Besides, condoms were hard to come by. If Ryan really wanted to have sex with someone, he would have to go down to the store, speak to a person, face to face, and order a prophylactic. That entailed looking someone in the eyes, them knowing who he was and remembering his face as they handed it over. Forever remembering that Ryan Ross had sex and the next time he walked inside, they would say to him, ‘Hey, aren’t you the guy that got laid?’ 

There was no way Ryan was willing to do that. 

What if, when Ryan was sixteen, he got a girl pregnant? That would be the worst outcome of all. He couldn’t have a baby. He couldn’t do it. He would be a terrible father. He would be too much like George. He wouldn’t be able to bear that. And, if he ever did get a girl pregnant, his own father would kill him. He would _kill_ him. Ryan was far too young to die. 

But all those worries didn’t stop Spencer from laughing in his face. 

That hadn’t made Ryan feel so secure about his choices. 

Ryan had a girlfriend when he was sixteen years old and had kept her into when he was seventeen—Keltie was her name—and she was a very pretty girl. She had a narrow face and a biting smile, but she liked to pet his hair and that felt nice. And, at least when he was dating her, he had the title of ‘having girlfriend’ and that’s really all a sixteen-year-old boy in 1938 could ask for. 

After Spencer had laughed at him, Ryan had quickly expressed the concern to Keltie that he simply just didn’t want to have sex. _Sex is a big deal. Wouldn’t it be best to wait for marriage? Or at least until we love one another? You’re a girl. I thought it was a big deal for girls too. Can’t you wait?_ Not that he had said it so bluntly. It had really gone more along the lines of, ‘I don’t really think I’m ready for that yet.’

Luckily, when he said something, Keltie hadn’t laughed at him. That was the upside. But, if he were being honest, her reaction was worse than Spencer’s. 

Keltie had seemingly made it her new purpose in life to make Ryan sleep with her. Which any other boy in the world would be ecstatic about, he knew that. Keltie was a very nice-looking girl and she had a wonderful body, all soft turns and curves of her flesh beneath dresses that were far too small.

But sex was a big deal. And Ryan simply didn’t love her. 

She didn’t make her intentions even slightly subtle either; sucking on his neck when they were alone and whispering absolutely vulgar things in his ear in public places that made him go crimson. It was a nice thought, he supposed. That someone cared about him. Not that Keltie ever _said_ she cared about him. She just said she wanted him to fuck her. 

And sure, alright, Keltie was a nice-looking girl and Ryan liked her a lot. He liked spending time with her when she wasn’t horny. When they could watch T.V. or go to a movie or stroll around town and every now and then she would pet his hair. But he didn’t want to do any of the things she requested. He wanted to make her laugh and buy some goddamn flowers. 

He let it continue for around a year, gently turning her down when the question arose—making her even more irritable than the last time he said no—until the line was completely crossed in 1939 after he had turned seventeen. 

It was a Sunday, late afternoon, and she had come over to his house—when his father was out of town—because he invited her to watch the T.V. with him. Seemed innocent enough. 

But then, in the middle of a commercial about Coca-Cola, Keltie thought it had been the appropriate time to shove her hand into his pants. 

The moment had all but been a blur to Ryan—the feeling of sharp nails beneath his underwear and on a place he definitely didn’t want them to be—and he distinctly remembered letting out a distressed cry and jumping from the couch, holding onto the front of his slacks like they needed to be protected. 

Keltie had stared at him, alarmed and disturbed, and then—in one swift huff—she had exited the house, slamming the door behind her. 

Keltie had broken up with him the following day. 

Thank God, though, she hadn’t told a soul about the altercation. Didn’t go around the Highschool telling everyone that Ryan Ross was a prude. Sure, it would have been bad for Ryan’s reputation—if destroying him was what Keltie had in mind—if people knew he was a sixteen-year-old boy who didn’t want to have sex and screamed like a bitch when people groped him. But it would have been a whole lot worse for Keltie if people thought she was a clingy whore. 

You pick your battles and the battle of sex wasn’t one that Keltie was willing to fight.

Ryan—when asked why the pair had broken up after over a year of dating—had told Spencer in a panicked decision that it was Keltie who had turned down sex with him. He was hoping his earlier comment to Spencer about not wanting to have sex had been brushed under the rug. It had been a year, after all. People could change in a year. People could change in a week if they tried hard enough. 

Spencer had called her a ‘goddamn tease, good riddance’ and Ryan hadn’t liked that so much. Keltie wasn’t the tease; he was. 

After the Keltie incident, Ryan had put off having girlfriends for a while. That was until Elizabeth Berg forced herself into the picture—the new girl who moved into town after her mother died—and made it her mission to make Ryan fall in love with her. 

And it worked. It really, really worked. She barely had to try. 

Ryan and she had started out as friends before they began dating, teasing and laughing with each other on the school campus after hours. Going to picture shows, sneaking in through the back, and going to the park during the weekends. 

There was something about Z that made Ryan a little wrong in the head. Excitable and willing to do what she asked him too. He supposed Brendon had that same effect on him. Maybe that’s why he loved them. Loved the person they made him into.

Ryan had thought of being romantically involved with Z but was unsure how to make a move. Although he never had to figure it out because as they sat on his couch after school—the same couch Keltie had grabbed his crotch—Z had turned to him, hand locked with his, and said, “So, should I kiss you first or wait for you to get the hint?”

Ryan had been floored. Girls didn’t usually ask those sorts of things. Z was different than any other girl he had meant; much different than Keltie’s greedy hands. She wasn’t like anyone else in the world at the time. Not like Spencer or his dad. Z was unique and it made her perfect. 

Ryan decided he loved her. 

“I get it,” he had said back and planted a kiss on her lips. 

They started dating that following week and once again, Ryan Ross had the title of ‘having girlfriend’ but this time he was legitimately proud to hold it. 

He kept the title from when the two were eighteen until twenty-one. Until Ryan went off to France. And, technically, Ryan had thought he still had that title even then too even if he actually hadn’t. 

Could he count those years? Z and Spencer had been together for a portion of that time. Two years, she had said on the phone. Z traded in his title easily. Ryan wondered how it had started, her and Spencer. If they were just friends who did things sometimes and it changed to more. 

Or if she realized she loved him all along even when Ryan was in the picture. Realized she never loved him at all.

No. Z loved Ryan. She had. He knew it. He needed to get it through his head. Sometimes people love you. And sometimes they stop. Z loved him until she didn’t. 

She loved him when they slept together that night at his house when they were eighteen when he first told he loved her. She had said it back and it had been the truth. 

He loved her too. 

She hadn’t expected anything of him. Hadn’t expected him to have sex with her that night. She had let him say no. Only expected a place to lay her head. She was alright with just laughing at his stupid jokes and kissing him on the neck and getting flowers. And Ryan was alright with giving those things. So very alright. 

He still loved her when they had sex for the first time. She loved him then too. 

Ryan Ross had sex with his girlfriend for the first time and the last time when he was twenty-one years of age. 

It was the day he got drafted. 

Because it had occurred to him when he read the notice in a smudged, blocky print, that he was about to go to France a virgin. He was about to leave the girl he loved at twenty-one and head off to France. Off too war.

Ryan Ross was about to die a virgin. 

And he loved Z. He loved her so much. And she wanted to have sex with him. She had expressed the interest before, and—for the first time—Ryan returned it. Ryan wanted to have sex with her before he died.

He lived in his own house by then. Had been living in it for over a year and he loved it. Loved it when she was there. And that day—twenty-one; the same day he got drafted—he asked Z to spend the night with him. 

The invitation was clear. Z accepted without hesitation. 

And, at twenty-one years old the day he found out he was headed to France, in his own house in his own bed with a girl he loved, Ryan Ross lost his virginity. 

And, yeah, Ryan was a bit of a coward for it. Also, a freak. Also, the only man in the entire world who didn’t go crazy for sex. But sex meant a lot to him. Sex was a thing to share with a person you loved. Sex was combining two bodies together into one, mixing yourself with another person. How could you throw something like that around?

He waited until the time was right. Waited until he could have sex with a girl he loved. A girl he would share the rest of his life with if he could. 

And it was good. It was very, _very_ good. 

Z was exquisite, all long limbs and tawny skin beneath him. Shallow breathing and whispered ‘I love you’s beneath the covers. Squeaks of the mattress that made Z laugh and Ryan laugh with her.

Spencer had been right. Sex was fairly fantastic. 

What was even more fantastic was afterward, both sticky with sweat and lying together in bed, Z’s head on his chest and arms wrapped around one another. Legs slotted between other legs and hair messy around the pillows, some of Z’s golden curls in his face.

He had sneezed on her head and she had laughed. He loved her laugh and he loved her. 

Z had on his shirt and her own panties; Ryan clad in nothing but his briefs. She was red-faced and smiling, lazily stroking her thumb across his forearm.

She had leaned up to kiss his temple and he had thought to himself at that moment, a thought that was all too true at the time, _this is the girl I’m going to marry. I’m going to marry this girl the moment I get back._

But out loud what he said was, “I got my orders.”

Z had laughed again abruptly, patting Ryan’s arm with her hand. He didn’t find the humor in the statement and instead laid there in silence. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to find the stars there. The answer was none. Let her laugh into his hair.

The laughter died out after some time. She wiped at her rosy cheeks. “That’s funny, Ryan.”

“Not a joke.”

“What?”

He looked at her frown. Smiled. “I’ve been called, Z.”

She stared at him, eyes going wide, and she pulled herself to sit, ripping her body from his. “Okay, that’s not funny, Ryan.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s supposed to be,” Ryan amended, chuckling a little to himself. He didn’t move to sit up, moving his arms to rest behind his head against the pillow. “War isn’t supposed to be funny, is it?”

Z just stared on. There was unspoken anger in her eyes. Ryan figured it was best to leave it that way. “You—”

“I’m gonna leave. Just thought you ought to know.” His voice had died down and his smile was completely gone from his face. There wasn’t anything to smile about. Even the ache in his muscles and the sweat on his forehead. Even the satisfied feeling between his legs and in his stomach. He couldn’t smile about that. 

“I—you… Ryan,” she whispered. 

“Uh huh.”

“W-where?” She asked after a few beats. She was sitting up in bed, the covers pooled beneath her and her bare legs were visible. Ryan reached out to place a hand on her thigh. It was warm against his hand. “Where are you going?”

“France,” he answered and rubbed a circle on her skin with his finger, tracing a pattern even he couldn’t distinguish. 

“Paris?” She asked. 

He hummed and traced a line up her leg. “Doubt it.”

“They say it’s the city of love,” she murmured. 

“Next time I go, I’ll take you with me.”

She took his hand off her thigh and held it against her mouth. Kissed his knuckles once each. There was nothing else she could think to say. There wasn’t anything Ryan could come up with either. She knew now. The only person he ever loved. The only person that ever loved him knew he was going to war. Knew he was leaving her behind. 

It had been a beautiful moment and Ryan ruined it. 

Z and he hadn’t spoken of France again before he left. She pretended as though she didn’t know. He didn’t mind too much; whatever she wanted to do. Whatever made her happy. It was only a week or so. They didn’t have sex again during that time period.

Z and he only slept together once and it was the night Ryan Ross decided to break her heart.

So Ryan Ross was a coward and he was a freak; that much was certain. He slept with one girl one time when he was twenty-one and proceeded not to have sexual relations for the next three years while in France. Some men couldn’t even last three weeks. 

Ryan hadn’t so much as _kissed_ a girl when he was in France. He wasn’t going to do that to Z. He wasn’t a bad man. Granted, he had stared after Brendon Urie half the time. Wondered what his lips tasted like. Sketched the cupid’s bow of them in the margins of a baby bible. 

Never actually made contact though. Only lusted after him and those lips when they sat at a creek edge. Only thought about his fingers when he wore dead man rings. Only thought about Brendon Urie when he had to.

And he did _have_ to. Brendon Urie was pretty fucking distracting. 

Very distracting with his feminine features and his full lips and evil eyes. So distracting, in fact, that when he asked Ryan, ‘If I asked you to fuck me, would you?’ Ryan had responded with a resolute, ‘yeah, I will.’

Because there was no other option. There wasn’t any thought to it all. That’s just how it was. Brendon wanted Ryan to fuck him and Ryan was going to fuck him. Ryan _wanted_ to have sex with Brendon.

It had all clicked so beautifully into place. Ryan wanted to. Desperately, he wanted to. 

It had been three years. Three years of being distracted by Brendon’s feminine features and evil, black eyes. He needed to. He needed Brendon and he needed to kiss him and touch him and laugh with him and love him. 

Brendon said he loved him. 

The words kept rattling around inside his skull as Brendon fumbled with Ryan’s slacks. _Of course I love you,_ Brendon had said. Because of course he did. How was Ryan so stupid as to think Brendon didn’t love him? Of course. Of _course_ Brendon loved him. 

Three years Ryan Ross waited to love Brendon Urie; he wasn’t about to wait another goddamn second. 

But it wasn’t the sex Ryan cared about. It was Brendon.

Brendon was doing his best to kick off his own shoes while pulling Ryan’s pants to his midthighs. Ryan didn’t protest; didn’t want to protest. 

Let Brendon drag the clothing down willingly and then tug incessantly when the fabric got caught at the bend in Ryan’s knees. Laughed when Brendon pulled aggressively at it, frustrated like a child. 

“Bren,” he said through a chuckle, moving back from Brendon. “I think I need to get up.”

Brendon made a whine of disapproval but didn’t grab after Ryan when he stood, getting off the couch to stand between the table and the couch, over top of the other garments they had pushed onto the ground. They were making a mess. 

Ryan kicked out of his pants and suspenders, adding to the heap of clothing. His orvals and socks came next. Then he straightened up, a man in only his briefs to look at Brendon sitting on the couch, socks and shoes off but pants still on. Granted, the fly was open and slung low on his hips so his grey underwear could be seen clearly.

His dog tag hung around his neck and off his stomach. The view was so much better than that day by the creek edge. 

Ryan tried his best to smile but he felt extremely awkward, standing there with his body on display for Brendon to gawk at. The outline of his dick was obvious beneath his briefs and he knew Brendon could make out clearly how hard he was. Painfully. 

Ryan didn’t get hard that easily. When he was with Z, sure. And a few nights in France when he had woken up from a particularly exciting dream. He had jacked off before. He wasn’t completely unordinary. 

Although, with Brendon Urie in front of him, shirtless and panting, it was more than enough to get his dick excited. 

“Yes,” was all Brendon said and he stood off the couch. 

Ryan didn’t know what that meant for sure, but Brendon seemed adamant on it as he reached out to grab Ryan by the back of the head again and crash their mouths together. 

Before Ryan knew entirely what was going on, one of Brendon’s hands snaked down his bare torso—goosebumps rocketing down his spine—and into his underwear. 

Ryan let out a gasp as Brendon’s hand closed around him, rough fingertips and calloused hands. The sensation was foreign in a way. It was the same act Keltie had done but there wasn’t anything malicious about it. Nothing painful. Only liberating. 

Three years was a long time. Brendon had barely touched him, how was his body already this sensitive? Had it been this way with Z? 

“Oh god, yes,” Brendon panted into his mouth, rubbing his hand over the length with precision, like he knew exactly what he was doing, swiping a thumb over the head. 

Ryan barely had the chance to get used to the situation—the new sensation that had his jaw slackening—before Brendon was pulling his hand away, the heat lost, and backing up. Ryan chased his lips with his mouth breathlessly. 

“I’m gonna suck you off.” Brendon’s voice was dark. 

It wasn’t a request. It was what he was going to do. It was a fact. And all Ryan could do was nod in reply. _Yes_ , he thought. _You can do that. Yes._

Z had given him head before. The night they slept together for the first time. His memories of the event were hazy, but he remembered a warmth through his body and Z pulling off him. How messy his floor had been after the fact. 

Brendon went to his knees without another word, still in his unzipped trousers, and his legs hit the ground with a soft thud. Ryan wondered if that would leave a bruise. However, he didn’t ask when Brendon looked up at him, all big black eyes and red lips. _Oh God_. Ryan wondered if his body had ever been so hot before. Brendon Urie on his knees in front of him, swiping a tongue over his lips. His eyes were wide. 

No evil to them now. Only a glint of interest and dilated pupils. 

Brendon hooked his fingers into Ryan’s briefs and pulled them down his legs, his hard dick now completely on show, dangling just in front of Brendon’s mouth. 

Instantly, Ryan had the urge to cover himself. He hadn’t been entirely naked in front of anyone except for Z. Z and Brendon Urie. The two people he loved most. 

It felt like he was losing his virginity all over again. 

“God, Ryan,” Brendon said and the sound went straight to Ryan’s dick. “Yes.”

Ryan really wanted to know what that meant. But he didn’t get the chance to ask—not that he really planned to—as Brendon took him into his mouth. 

All thoughts were cut off in a flash. All thoughts aside from _Brendon._

_Brendon, Brendon. Brendon._

_Yes. Yes. Yes._

Ryan groaned from the back his throat, hands instantly going to Brendon’s black hair, snatching it in fistfuls. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough and at the same too much. 

Brendon only hummed and the sound made his lips buzz around Ryan’s dick. His mouth only went about ¾’s up the length and Brendon reached up a hand to cover the base of Ryan’s dick to make up for it. 

The pressure was firm, mind-blowing, and Brendon only gave him a second to relax into it before he moved his mouth up and down. Holy, _fuck._ Is this what this was supposed to feel like it? 

Brendon’s mouth was hot and wet, his throat constricting purposefully around Ryan so that he could feel when his dick hit the back of Brendon’s throat and Brendon made a small choking sound, pulling off. 

Ryan kept a hold of his hair, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. Brendon used the hand still on his dick to jerk it a few times and he smiled up at Ryan, a bead of saliva resting on his bottom lip. 

For a man that had just had a dick in his mouth, he looked pleased with himself. And exceedingly gorgeous. Ryan wanted to kiss him. Wanted to pull him up and kiss him until he couldn’t breathe. 

But he didn’t say anything before Brendon went back onto him, lips wrapped perfectly around his dick and Ryan wondered why hadn’t thought of this sooner. Why he hadn’t just kissed Brendon sooner. 

Those lips. _Fuck_ , those lips.

They were against him, stretched around him, the warmth encasing his dick insane and working heat up through his crotch into his stomach. 

Ryan felt like he hadn’t ever been touched before. 

Brendon gave a particularly hard suck, and Ryan stared down at him, his closed eyes—dark eyelashes over hollowed cheeks—his tongue pressing to the underside of Ryan’s dick and then to the head, over the slit, and Ryan moaned. 

Brendon returned the sound and Ryan realized Brendon was palming himself through his underwear; he was getting off on to and the visual was just a bit too much. 

“Brendon,” Ryan gasped, starting to move away. “I think I’m gonna—"

Brendon pulled off for a split second. “Do it.”

He latched right back on and Ryan couldn’t help it, couldn’t pull away fast enough. He just did. Bucked his hips helplessly into Brendon’s mouth—like he didn’t have control over his own body—spilling down his throat, white and hot. Everything around him was hot, all the way down to his fingertips as he came. 

And—unlike Z—Brendon stayed on him, holding his hips with his hands to keep him in place as he thrust into Brendon’s mouth. 

Ryan felt him swallow. 

Brendon sat back onto his heels, his hand leaving Ryan’s dick, leaving Ryan standing there, out of breath and shaking barely, his cock softening between his legs. 

Brendon used a thumb to wipe off his lips, red and swollen. 

Ryan stared at him and, without a second thought, fell to his knees as well with a loud sound—definitely a bruise later—and grabbed Brendon roughly by both sides of his neck to pull their lips together. 

That was Ryan’s taste on his tongue. That bitter taste. That was Ryan's taste and Ryan groaned into the kiss. Had he ever felt this alive before? He didn’t think so. What was living? Had he ever been alive to begin with?

Brendon kissed him back, just as enthusiastic and trailed his hands down Ryan’s stomach back to his soft dick between his legs. 

They parted for a second, foreheads together, and Brendon asked, grinning, “How was that?”

“Yes,” was all Ryan could think to say in response. 

“Can you get hard again?” Brendon asked through a small laugh, tugging at Ryan’s dick with his hand. 

“Yes,” Ryan answered, because he most certainly could. “Yes.”

“I want you to make love to me,” Brendon whispered into the space between Ryan and his mouth in one hot breath. “Can you do that?”

Ryan’s dick twitched. “Absolutely.”

That was a new phrase, Brendon had used. That was a whole new phrase and Ryan liked it. Ryan liked it so much. _Make love_. He was going to make love with someone. Someone loved him. Brendon loved him. 

The man in question grinned and kissed him again. Ryan’s head was reeling. Brendon Urie just sucked his dick. Brendon Urie just sucked his dick and Ryan came down his throat. Ryan was going to have sex with Brendon Urie. He was going to make love. 

Brendon broke off from the kiss and stood, leaving Ryan kneeling on the floor in the living room, head still spinning and his knees aching where he had hit the floor. 

Ryan glanced over his shoulder to see Brendon entering the kitchen. Ryan stood as well, getting his briefs off his ankles in the meantime so he was completely naked, standing in Brendon’s sitting room with aching knees. 

He was completely naked in the living room, his dick hanging between his legs and shiny with Brendon’s spit, Brendon across the apartment in the kitchen, shuffling through cabinets. Oddly domestic, this scene. 

“What are you look—?" Ryan started to ask when Brendon turned around to see him standing there. Brendon’s face of concentration shifted, and he smiled at Ryan, skimming him up and down with peering eyes. 

Ryan didn’t feel as self-conscious as he had. Brendon wouldn’t look at him so hungrily if he didn’t like what he saw. 

“Ryan,” he said delicately—like he was going to say something beautiful—before he glanced up, breaking his eye contact from Ryan’s hardening dick and said, “Go to my bedroom. I’m not gonna let you fuck me on the couch.”

Ryan didn’t object, although his dick was vastly interested, turning and walking into the bedroom, brightened only by the sun through the window down the hall. It was as he went inside the small room, that he noticed his bag on the bed. His packed bag. Ready for him to go home; back to Las Vegas. To his father’s funeral. 

What would his father think of him? Getting ready to have sex with another man. _Disgusting. Revolting. I’m glad I got to die before I saw it. Faggot_. 

Ryan was mad for a second. Why should he go back at all? His father never cared about him. But he did have to settle the house payments. He did have to get that all sorted. He had a lot he had to do. None of them things he wanted to.

He could hear Brendon shuffling around in the kitchen. Brendon Urie with his trousers unzipped and his dick hard, trying to find something so he could come and have Ryan fuck him. 

His father’s house could wait a day. 

Ryan snatched the army pack off the bed and shoved it into the corner. Then he climbed onto the bed and sat, stone still in the center of it, the blankets soft and welcoming beneath his bare skin. 

It felt uncomfortable, sitting there by himself, naked on Brendon’s bed. Anxious. Anticipating. And as he sat there, naked, the worries started to come. Brendon wanted Ryan to have sex with him. To make love, which was a phrase Ryan hadn’t used before. 

Ryan had never had sex with a man. What did it entail? He knew there was supposed to be one man being penetrated and one man doing the penetrating. By the way Brendon phrased it, Ryan assumed he was the one doing the penetrating. 

How did that work? Would he have to be behind Brendon? He wanted to see Brendon’s face. He wanted to be able to kiss him during. Would gay sex be able to provide him that? How would Brendon get off while Ryan was fucking him? Would he be able to do it correctly?

Oh God, what if he couldn’t do it correctly?

Brendon had just sucked his dick. Brendon had made Ryan come; down his throat no less and that had to be unpleasant. What if Ryan couldn’t do the same? What if he was bad at sex? Holy fuck, he didn’t know how to fuck. How was he supposed to do this?

Brendon entered the room, buck naked. 

And the worry slowly slipped away as Ryan looked at Brendon, transfixed by the man in front of him. Barely tanned skin and a sharp V of his hips surrounded by lean muscle. 

Brendon walked further into the room, and it was then that Ryan noticed the bottle of Pompeian oil he held in one hand. 

Immediately, Ryan’s brow creased. He didn’t ask anything, however, as Brendon made it to the bedside table, setting the bottle down and Ryan had a perfect view of his ass from that angle, round and pale. Ryan blinked a few times. He was inexplicably hard again. 

Brendon turned to him and he couldn’t seem to wipe his smile off his face. It was an odd smile compared to his others. Not joyful or playful. It was only dazed. Like it was a smile he wasn’t meaning to hold up; it was there without him thinking. 

That made Ryan smile too. 

He bobbed his head for Brendon to join him and Brendon did, jumping onto the bed so it creaked, and he landed on his knees, wobbling for balance. Ryan laughed at him and bent forward, getting onto his knees as well on the blankets, reaching out for Brendon. 

His hands found Brendon’s bare skin, running up his sides and—doing his best not to think—he circled his hands to Brendon’s back to where it met the curve of his ass. Ryan could feel the way the tendons stretched beneath Brendon’s skin. 

Brendon’s lips found his and they kissed for a moment, Ryan’s hands on Brendon’s back and slipping to his ass, Brendon’s hands on his sides before Brendon pulled back and asked, “Do you want to?”

He wanted to be sure. He wanted to make completely sure Ryan wanted to and Ryan loved him. Ryan loved him more than ever. 

“Yes,” Ryan answered. He did. He just didn’t know how. 

Brendon let his smile grow wider and he turned away from Ryan, reaching to the bottle of oil on his bedside table. It was as he was settling back into the bed that he noticed the wary expression Ryan suited. 

He stopped instantly. 

“Ryan?” Brendon asked. “You alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah.”

Brendon quirked a brow. He appeared puzzled. And then he looked between Ryan’s eyes and the bottle and the expression changed to realization. He asked, not mocking or teasing, “Do you have any idea how to do this?”

“Not a one,” Ryan answered honestly, looking up from the oil to Brendon’s face. “But I want you to show me.”

Brendon exhaled. “O-oh. Okay.”

“Is that alright?” Ryan asked, nervous. For a split second, he wished he had his clothes on. 

“Yeah, yes. Of course it is,” Brendon replied quickly. _Of course I love you_. “I uh—” He broke into a small laugh. “I’ve never had to explain it before.”

Ryan frowned, creasing his brow. “Do you still want to… even if I don’t—?” 

“Yes,” Brendon rushed out. “Yes, I do. Do you?” 

Ryan nodded. He did. He really did.

“Here, give me your hand.” Brendon reached out and held the oil over it. “Have you ever fingered a dame before?”

Ryan blinked in surprise. His cheeks reddened at the word. That was stupid. Why was he growing red? He had just had his dick in this man’s mouth, he shouldn’t worry about what terminology was used. “Oh uh… No, I never have.”

“Okay, so we’re going in blind. That’s alright,” Brendon said. He didn’t sound concerned and Ryan was glad for that. He peeked up at Ryan, taking the oil away for a second. “I can prep myself if you want.”

“Prep?” Ryan repeated, confused. 

“Yeah,” Brendon answered, and he grinned again. “Yeah, you can’t go in dry. My ass has to be ready for you.” 

Why did those words make Ryan’s dick throb? He hadn’t ever thought of that. Preparation of any kind. A girl was naturally ready. There was no sort of preparation involved. When he and Z had been together, he had been able to go right in, no problem. Just a kiss, situating himself between her legs and pushing in. Nothing more.

“A-and that requires olive oil?” Ryan stuttered. 

“I have to be wet first,” Brendon replied matter-of-factly. Again, Ryan’s dick responded to the words. “Therefore, olive oil. Here, I’ll show you.”

Brendon lay back on the bed in front of Ryan, squeezing the oil onto his hands. It dripped across his fingers, runny and liquid across his palm. He didn’t care about it though and Ryan watched in awe as Brendon laid on his side, reaching around himself to insert a glossy finger into his ass. 

Ryan let his mouth hang open at the motion—how quick it had happened, how Brendon was willing to let him watch such a thing—how Brendon closed his eyes in concentration as he worked the finger in and out of the muscle. 

By the time he had two fingers in and was about to put in a third, Ryan asked hurriedly, “Can I try?”

Brendon obliged with a small breath, slipping his fingers out of his ass and moving to better accommodate Ryan, spreading his legs and holding his ass in front of Ryan, holding on the blankets beneath him. No hesitation. He was willing to let Ryan do what he wanted. Why did Ryan’s body churn at the realization? At the comprehension of how much power he truly had.

Ryan stared at the flesh in front of him; the notches of Brendon’s spine and the dimples in his back. 

Ryan squirted oil into his hands. It was slightly thicker than water and it glistened across his fingers. The fluid was cooler; not cold but not warm and he wondered how that felt inside Brendon. He looked down at the body in front of him and—doing his best not to think—pressed a single digit against the ring of muscle. 

Brendon said easily, “Not too hard.”

Ryan took that into account as he slotted his finger into Brendon’s body. Held it there for a second, unsure how to proceed. 

“Ryan,” Brendon murmured. “Move it.”

Ryan did as instructed; Brendon was the one who knew how to do it. Moved the finger hesitantly inside Brendon and—when nothing bad happened; only the feeling of heat around his finger and a pulse to his dick—he moved it with more confidence, crooking it inside Brendon’s body. 

“Another,” Brendon told him. It sounded like he had his face in the blankets. 

Ryan inserted his middle finger and repeated the process, a movement, a curl. And when Brendon made a muffled sound—his face was definitely pressed into the comforter—Ryan put in a third. He moved them around a little more freely, hoping what he was doing was right. 

When he pressed his fingers into a new region he hadn’t before, Brendon made a loud sound into the mattress that was louder and higher in pitch than the others and Ryan froze instantly, worried he had done something wrong. 

“Was that wrong?” He asked, starting to remove his fingers in distress. 

“No, no don’t,” Brendon rushed, lifting his face barely from the blanket and reaching around to catch Ryan’s thin wrist and hold him in place inside his ass. “That was right. That was so right, Ryan.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows but did as instructed and kept his fingers in place. He moved them again the same way, the same spot, and that time Brendon moaned. There was nothing else it could have been. High pitched, a whine that flowed through Ryan’s entire body.

“Yes, that’s it,” Brendon groaned. “Perfect, Ryan. Perfect.”

He had his hand on his own cock, cranking it carefully as Ryan pressed fingers inside him. A few more seconds of that and Ryan went to put in a fourth finger, but Brendon used the hold he had on Ryan’s wrist to pull him out.

“Alright, alright. No more of that,” he said heavily. “I want you. I want you now.”

He turned over, face to face with Ryan—who had a moment of happiness that he would be able to face Brendon after all—putting his legs on either side of Ryan’s body. Brendon propped himself up his elbows and looked at Ryan with those wide black eyes. His pupils kept growing bigger. He was breathing hard and his dick was red and stiff in front of Ryan. 

“Take my legs,” Brendon instructed. 

Ryan did as he was told, grabbing Brendon by the thighs, one of his hands still coated in olive oil and slipping when it touched him. Doing the best he could with a slippery hand, Ryan hoisted Brendon up and pulled him forward so their bodies thumped together, dick on dick, and they both made small noises of surprise in unison. 

“On me,” Brendon gasped. “On me, now.”

Ryan tried to decipher as well as he could, inching forward to bend over Brendon, situating himself between Brendon’s spread legs, still holding him by the thighs. It was Brendon’s turn to move, shifting up and crossing his ankles over Ryan’s back, heels digging into Ryan’s spine. 

Ryan didn’t complain. Brendon’s body was against him, legs squeezing his sides, dick hard in front of him and elbows keeping him up, clenching the blankets in his hands. What the hell did he have to complain about?

“Oil,” Brendon commanded, and Ryan did know what that meant, taking the bottle from beside him and moving to put on some his hand. 

“Your prick,” Brendon heaved out, squirming impatiently. “Put it on your prick.” 

Ryan didn’t say anything, didn’t question it, as he dripped olive oil onto his dick, using one hand to rub the substance over himself. It almost felt wrong to touch himself after Brendon had. His hands didn’t feel the same. 

Brendon Urie had ruined him in the most incredible way possible. How did he know how to do that? 

“Okay, okay,” Brendon said, watching as Ryan set the bottle aside on the bed. “It’s like fucking a girl. Practically. Sort of.”

“Okay,” Ryan said back; that hadn’t been very convincing. 

He concentrated on what he was about to do, lining himself up with Brendon’s ass how he would if it were a vagina. It had been a long time since Z. Three years in France. How long had it been since Brendon had sex?

He glanced up at Brendon sprawled on the bed in front of him, fingers clenching the sheets with his eyes closed, neck exposed. 

Ryan asked, because he wanted to know, “How many men did you fuck in France?”

“Now is not the time,” Brendon hissed. 

“How many?” He asked and bumped his body against Brendon’s, eliciting a small gasp. 

“Ryan, please.”

Ryan liked the way that sounded coming off Brendon’s tongue. “I’m just asking.”

“Four, okay?” Brendon lamented. “Four. Now, Ryan, pl—”

“How am I doing so far?” Ryan asked. He sounded teasing but he was genuinely curious. This was the point of no return. Blowjobs were one thing and fingering was another. He was about to fuck Brendon. They were about to have sex. Sex was a big deal. 

“So fucking good,” Brendon whined. He sounded like he meant it. “So, so fucking good, Ryan. Now would you please—”

He was cut off in a rough gasp when Ryan pushed inside him. 

Ryan only went about halfway, instantly lightheaded by the tight pressure around him, warmth clenching around his dick. So much different, so much better than Brendon’s mouth. He took a hard breath at the feeling and Brendon’s legs tightened around his waist. 

Ryan closed his eyes and pushed himself in the rest of the way. 

“Yes,” Brendon sighed again. Ryan decided he liked that word more than any other. “ _Yes_.”

Ryan held onto Brendon’s thighs with his hands tightly, doing his best to brace himself. Is this how it was supposed to feel? Is this how sex was supposed to feel? Z hadn’t been nearly this tight, encasing almost his entire dick. _Fuck_ , Ryan was going to see stars. 

There was a second of panting, silence in the room save for labored breathing and small whines until Brendon said, demanded really, “Ryan. Move. I need you to move.”

Ryan circled his hips out and back in, the sound of skin sliding together loud in the small bedroom. Brendon’s moan managed to be louder. 

Ryan did it again, in and out—the same movement—and Brendon moaned again. He was vocal, wasn’t he? Z hadn’t done much other than whisper how much she loved him. Ryan liked both. 

He leaned forward on top of Brendon and kissed him, swallowing his next moan into his mouth when it came out. There was something so beautiful about how their bodies melded together, in and out, in and out. Rhythmic. 

Ryan had been wrong before. About living and death and everything in between. He had been wrong when he said he felt alive. He was wrong when he thought he knew what dying was like. Those few times when he thought, _this is it. This is what dying is._ Times like when Brendon gave him a bath or kissed him. 

This— _this_ —was what dying felt like.

Combined with someone else, bodies mixing together, so intricately. With someone who he loved more than anyone else. Someone he could live the rest of his life with. That was dying. 

And, God, was it beautiful. 

Ryan kissed Brendon again because he didn’t know how to put that into words, tongues gliding against one another, and he decided he needed better access to Brendon. A better angle to touch Brendon. Better access to dying. 

A moment of experimentation then. Hope for the best. He took Brendon forcibly by his thighs, the flesh soft and kneadable in his hands as he pressed them towards Brendon’s stomach, deepening the position. 

Brendon seemed to know exactly what Ryan was attempting and he helped to tuck his legs in before hanging his knees over Ryan’s shoulders, giving way for a new angle for Ryan to thrust into him and that was it—that was the spot—because Brendon let out a small shout into Ryan’s mouth. 

Brendon’s hands scrambled to get a hold on Ryan’s neck, clawing into his hair while Ryan kissed him. He couldn’t imagine the position being very comfortable for Brendon but the noises he was letting out didn’t lead Ryan to believe he was doing anything wrong. 

Spencer had been right. A girl screaming his name and raking marks on him was incredible. Except in Ryan’s case, it was a man screaming. It was Brendon that was calling out.

Another moment of practice, Ryan took one of his hands from Brendon’s thighs and wrapped it around Brendon’s dick. He didn’t know exactly how to work it but he knew how he jacked himself off, so he attempted that. Brendon mewled as Ryan jerked his dick quickly, in time with his thrusts. 

There were a few more hits to that same spot, a few more cranks of Brendon’s dick and moans into Ryan’s mouth from Brendon before it happened. 

Before Ryan pounded in with a particularly expert thrust, one that smashed their bodies together, and Brendon’s jaw hung slack, his eyes snapping open, back arching, and he said, “Ryan I’m—”

And Ryan knew what that meant. So he kissed Brendon and hissed, “Do it.”

Brendon came with a shout, a rope of white spurting from his cock and hitting both Ryan and him in the stomach, successfully coating Ryan’s fist that was wrapped around the length. 

It only took a few more moments before the world slowed its spine. Everything disappeared but Brendon’s body beneath him. And Ryan was dead. He had to be dead. The pleasure that washed through him could not be felt by someone who was alive. 

Black shot across Ryan’s vision and with a heavy gasp he pulled out of Brendon just in time to spill cum across his bedsheets. 

He heaved, holding himself up on his knees and arms, hands on either side of Brendon’s torso and digging into the blankets to keep him stable. He was trembling. His entire body, rocking with small tremors. 

_Holy fuck_ , his mind went, _holy fuck. You did that. I did that. We did that._

He looked up at Brendon, stomach splattered with his own cum. Brendon sat up shakily, distasteful, and used the bedsheets to wipe the white muck off his flawless skin. Ryan didn’t move—he couldn’t—just trying to keep himself upright. 

Brendon looked back at him as he pushed the covers away from himself. 

“Next time,” Brendon murmured, out of breath. “Do it inside me.”

If Ryan had enough semen left in him, he might have come again. 

Instead, he tried to get his body back into a functioning state, getting himself to the edge of the bed to hang his legs off the side. He used the corner of the sheets to get the cum off his hand and stomach.

“Your sheets are fucked,” he said and his voice was scratchy. 

“Worth it,” came Brendon’s reply from the other side of the bed. 

Ryan did his best to stand off the bed and his legs swayed beneath him as though he might fall. His body was spent. He hadn’t been this lightheaded when he had sex with Z. God, he felt completely boneless. He was dead. That was the only answer. He was dead. 

“What’re you doing?” Brendon asked him when Ryan tried to get his legs to walk. 

“I’m gonna get my underwear,” Ryan answered, staring at his feet, asking them why they didn’t work. He didn’t know where exactly that response came from, but it made sense. 

“What for?” Brendon asked. 

Ryan turned to see him stripping the covers off the bed. He didn’t seem as uneasy physically as Ryan did but there was a shake to his hands as he pulled the covers to the floor. 

Brendon Urie was standing across from him completely naked, clearing off a bed Ryan just fucked him on. Brendon Urie looked like some sort of Greek God. Smooth skin and a rounded ass, lean muscles and feminine features. That man loved Ryan Ross. That man let Ryan fuck him. Oh, the world was kind. The world fucked him over so many times but it gave him some things that were all too perfect. 

Life was one cruel son of a bitch, but it wasn’t without its perks. 

“I don’t know,” Ryan answered, staring at Brendon. “I really don’t know.”

“C’mon,” Brendon said he climbed back onto the bed that was now devoid of covers. He had managed to salvage a single blanket from the mess, and he laid it out on the mattress. “Hold me, why don’t you?” 

Well, that just wasn’t fair. How was Ryan expected to say no to that? 

He walked back over to the bed and joined Brendon on top of it, sliding underneath the one clean blanket there was. Their bodies found each other quickly and Brendon reached out, letting Ryan take him into his embrace, one of Ryan’s arms going around Brendon’s waist and other moving to cup his face between the pillow. 

Brendon’s body was warm, and he was sweating. Ryan held him closer. 

Brendon tucked his arms between their chests and tilted his face into Ryan’s palm. Ryan loved him. Ryan really, really loved him. And Brendon loved him too. 

“I’m sorry about your covers,” Ryan whispered. 

“I’ll clean them,” Brendon answered. His eyelids flickered like he was tired. 

“If I ask, you’ll be honest, won’t you?” Ryan mumbled after a wait. 

“No more lying to you,” Brendon muttered. 

“How was that?”

Brendon laughed to himself and he kissed Ryan, slow and well-timed. Their lips fit together, and the kiss was sleepy. He parted, touching his nose to Ryan’s cheek and not moving. 

“It was good, Ryan,” Brendon purred back to him; exactly what he wanted to hear, said exactly how he wanted it to be said. “It was really, really good.”

Ryan smiled to himself. He was happy. He was excruciatingly happy. He had to be dead. 

“For you?” Brendon asked, moving to nuzzle his face into the crook of Ryan’s neck, his breath tickling the skin there. Ryan wouldn’t mind it if Brendon decided to kiss his neck.

“Good; great,” Ryan answered emphatically. He paused. “I’m shaking.”

Brendon laughed again and kissed Ryan’s collar bone. “That’s good.”

There was quiet between them. Ryan listened to Brendon breath against his clavicle, into the corner of his neck. He ran his hand up and down Brendon’s bare back. The man was perfect. The man was so perfect. 

Ryan waited a minute to whisper out, “I love you, Bren.”

Silence. 

Ryan tilted his head down to see the man in his arms. Brendon’s breathing was slow, relaxed, and his chest rose and fell evenly. He was already asleep. 

Ryan smiled to himself and held Brendon tighter against him. It was true. He really, really loved him. More than he loved anyone else in the world. And he doubted that would change soon. Ryan didn’t feel guilty. For once in his life, he had sex and didn’t feel bad about it. He hadn’t broken Brendon’s heart. He’d done well. He was a good man. He could be. 

And, despite all expectations, Brendon loved him too. 

Ryan held Brendon’s body close beneath the one clean blanket and tilted his head up to Brendon’s ceiling. The light from the hall bathed the room in a beautiful glow of sunshine. 

Ryan laid there, staring at the ceiling of Brendon’s bedroom and he searched for stars. And, although there were none, he supposed—that for the time being—the black dots of exhaustion dancing behind his eyelids as he fell asleep next to Brendon would have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted this chapter to be out immediately so I wrote the entire thing this morning. But, ah yes, plans. I saw fireworks tonight and got home around 11:30. Thus, my update is TECHNICALLY on July 4th instead of July 3rd. I will still be counting this as a quick update and you cannot take that away from me. But, on that note, happy July 4th. Fitting for this fic, really. Maybe not this chapter in particular, but you catch my drift.


	30. Where Else is There?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Me** : Alright, let's write this thing and get it out as soon as possible.  
>  **Also me** : What if you rewrite your entire outline, thus making the first draft of this chapter completely void and forcing you to write an entirely new version of it?  
>  **Me** : Sounds like a plan.

When Brendon woke up, he was sore and the sweat on his brow had since turned cold. It was a good type of sore though that inhabited his body. A thrum of energy through his veins that tightened his muscles and—in an attempt to relax—he stretched the best he could in the small space provided. 

Ryan was asleep next to him, mouth slack, and it sounded as if he was snoring. No whimpers or whines or cries for help though. Nothing of what had occurred two nights prior. Only tiny snores that met Brendon’s ears like a song. Nothing more than a lullaby.

Brendon rolled onto his side so he could be face to face with Ryan's sleeping visage. The second time he had slept in a bed with Ryan Ross. Very different circumstances, however, those two instances. Very different indeed. Brendon could safely say that he much preferred the current situation to previous one.

Ryan had one arm tossed over Brendon’s stomach, stuck to his skin, and the other beneath the pillows. His hair was tangled, and Brendon couldn’t help but smile to himself. He reached out a tentative hand to swipe the hair back from Ryan’s face. 

He was quite attractive, Ryan, especially when he was slumped in such a way across Brendon's bed. When his eyes were shut and his mouth was open and he was snoring, his hair flopping over his forehead and across the pillow. The two must have shifted in their sleep as the blanket had been distributed almost entirely to Brendon, half of Ryan’s body out in the open, exposed to the air. 

Brendon took the time provided to admire him. Admire the man he was in love with. What a wonderful phrase. The way Ryan's stomach rose and fell when he snored and the bumps of his ribs beneath his skin. One of his legs was out from the covers, extended and thin, and bending easily into the curve of his ass and his accentuated hip bones. They had been just as sharp as Brendon had imagined. Sharp enough to leave marks.

He would probably have bruises from those bones later on his own hips. If nothing else, Brendon was most assuredly going to have bruises on his knees from when he hit the floor. He might have been a bit too enthusiastic about that act. Hadn't even thought about it as he hit the floor. Ryan had responded well to it though. He had done very well, considering the circumstances. Brendon almost thought he had had gay sex before. Or he would have, if it wasn't for the terrified look in his eyes and the jaw drop when Brendon handed over a bottle of Pompeian oil. 

There was something incredible about sex with Ryan. Not that he was all that good in bed—he _was_ , especially for a first-timer, but his craft could use some honing—but there was some new layer to sex when it was with Ryan. A layer that Brendon didn't know there could be.

Brendon hadn’t ever loved someone when he had sex with them. No one ever said they loved him romantically and Brendon hadn’t said it either. He could count Ryan as his first then. A whole new type of virginity to be lost. 

He wondered if Ryan would like that idea. Ryan seemed like a romantic. What was going on a date with Ryan like? If Brendon were a dame, where would Ryan take him? Out to dinner or on a simple stroll through town? How would Ryan treat him? Brendon had been treated pretty phenomenally by Ryan thus far. He couldn’t really imagine Ryan being any better to him. 

What a concept that was. Ryan Ross, perfect in every way, shape, and form. There had to be a catch. To someone like Ryan Ross, there was always a catch. But Brendon was far too tired to figure it out. Far too content to worry himself with something like that. 

Brendon tucked a curl of russet hair behind Ryan’s ear. Ryan’s face was looking significantly better—still young but there was a maturity that hadn't been there before—and the yellow bruising was fading into nothing more than discolored skin around his eye. The small cut on his cheekbone was nearly healed too. Brendon moved his hand to the side of Ryan’s face, hovering a finger over the slice. As if he could heal it with a touch. 

His hands trailed down and he swiped a thumb over Ryan’s bottom lip. That was too much apparently, and Ryan snorted when he woke up, moving his face away from Brendon’s touch. 

“What?” He slurred, pulling his hand away from Brendon’s torso to rub a fist into his eye. “What’s happening?” 

Brendon watched Ryan fondly as he blinked profusely, trying to wake up. “Nothing’s happening.”

“Oh.” Ryan wiped the sleep from the corners of his eyes, rolling over onto his back, away from Brendon, using one hand to tug the blanket closer. “Why am I awake then?”

Brendon laughed. “I didn’t mean to; sorry.”

“It’s fine; it’s alright,” Ryan returned, squeezing his eyes shut and prying them open over and over until his vision could be cleared. “I need to stop sleeping so much anyhow.”

“You haven’t slept in days,” Brendon scolded.

“Have I not?” Ryan turned his head on the pillow to peer at Brendon who was still lying on his side, eyeing Ryan closely. “Feels like a lifetime.” 

Brendon didn’t say anything to that as he moved his body, pushing closer to Ryan’s warmth, taking the blanket with him. He situated it better around the both of them again without question or complaint and Ryan accepted, covering his thin legs and ass. Brendon was almost disappointed when the skin vanished beneath the velvety fabric. 

“How long have you been up?” Ryan asked, moving an arm around Brendon’s shoulders as Brendon tucked himself into Ryan’s side, hugging Ryan’s middle.

“Oh, forever,” Brendon chided. “A whole minute.”

“Funny.” 

“How you feeling?” Brendon asked. 

“Tired,” Ryan answered. “You?”

Brendon rested his head on Ryan’s shoulder. “Wide awake.”

“Good to hear,” Ryan teased, and he dropped a kiss to Brendon’s hair. Was this what being in love was like? Post-coital embraces and kisses to screwed up hair? Brendon was alright with that. He would be alright with just about anything so long as it entailed Ryan Ross. 

Ryan fucking Ross. He had sex with Ryan Ross. _Goddamn_. The realization was sinking into his bones, wrapping around his being. He had sex with Ryan Ross. And it was good. He could put it down as some of the best sex he had ever had, in fact. Love was an experience. Brendon liked being in love. 

Brendon tilted his head up to kiss Ryan and Ryan had the nerve to make a surprised sound when he did. How could he be surprised? Brendon was impressed he was able to _stop_ kissing Ryan Ross. 

He pulled away, propping himself up with an arm across Ryan and an elbow on the bed. The bed felt different with someone else in it. Kinder. More welcome. Brendon liked sleeping with another person. Liked being held. 

He hadn’t ever slept with someone after he had sex with them. That was usually too risky. Brendon never brought someone to his own house. He settled for quick, spur of the moment decisions in bar bathrooms or sneaking into Nancy to rendezvous with a French man that wanted a little adventure and nothing more. 

Brendon had never laid in his own bed with someone else wrapped around him—never with someone he loved. It was nice. Too good to be true, surely. 

Ryan batted his eyelashes and he hummed out a, “Thank you.”

Brendon snorted and moved the hair out of his own face, using cold sweat to push it away from his forehead. “For what?”

“Dunno yet,” Ryan answered with a shrug. “But something big, I’m sure.”

Brendon chuckled at him. “You sound like you’re drunk.”

“I might be.” Ryan rolled his head to stare at Brendon. Darted his gaze between Brendon’s eyes and his lips. There was a shimmer to those eyes. Bright and alive, and no matter how tired Ryan acted or how sleepy his voice was and his kisses pressed to hair were, his eyes couldn’t have been more awake. 

Brendon was drunk. Brendon was drunk on whiskey eyes. 

“When was the first time you ever had a drink?” Brendon questioned suddenly, holding Ryan’s stare with his own, black on whiskey. Oh, how those colors complimented one another. 

“Of alcohol?” Ryan confirmed, bewildered with the new line of conversation. 

“No of lemonade.” Brendon rolled his eyes. “Yeah, of alcohol.”

“Huh,” Ryan said, pulling a thoughtful expression. As if the question actually mattered. It didn't really. Brendon just loved to speak. “Dunno. Never thought about it before. I don’t drink so much. What made you ask that?”

“Just thinking,” Brendon said back. 

“What about?”

“Lots of stuff.” 

Ever since Ryan Ross sauntered into town with bruises on his face and a fucked leg, dressed up in tight suspenders and shatter-me whiskey eyes, Brendon couldn’t seem to turn his brain off. His thoughts went a mile a minute and sometimes he didn’t even know _what_ he was thinking about. They all poured in, one after the other, and they were too fast to process. 

“I was sixteen when I had my first beer,” Brendon recalled as if it mattered at all. “Thought I was a big shot for it too; told all my friends at school about it. Said I stole it from my dad’s cabinet. Wasn’t true though; Mason gave me a sip of his. No stealing required. Thought it made me sound like a real ace.”

Ryan appeared puzzled. “Mason? Who’s that?”

“My brother,” Brendon answered, and he frowned. Had he never mentioned Mason to Ryan before? He must have. All those days in France when men sat around and talked of home. At one point or another, he must have mentioned his—But no… Brendon had stayed silent during those talks, hadn't he? Even to Ryan Ross. He shouldn’t have brought it up. 

Ryan sat up in surprise, Brendon sliding off of him, and asked, “You have a brother?” 

Brendon slowly raised himself to sit up in the bed too, forced to move after Ryan rudely jerked away. He was careful to keep the blanket around him. Had to be modest. He nodded, saying, “Yeah. Two actually.”

“ _Two_?” Ryan repeated, astounded. 

“Yeah, two sisters too.” Brendon shook his head to himself. “Have I never mentioned this?”

He must not have. Even with all those men sitting around and droning on about letters from their family, Brendon hadn’t really ever discussed his home life with Ryan or anyone. Not that there was really anything to say. Would have been a rather depressing conversation. 

‘Ah yes. I have four siblings, a mother, and a father. And I don’t talk to any of them. Not a single soul. Why? Because I'm an arrogant faggot. Next question.’

Not that Ryan was so keen on discussing his family life either when they were in France. Never talked in detail about his father or his mother. He didn’t have any siblings; not that Brendon knew about. All that Ryan talked about was Z. Elizabeth Berg; she was Ryan’s family. All those men that flashed pictures of their wives or their mothers, Brendon couldn’t relate. The men that showed off the letters they received signed with hearts. Ryan and Brendon couldn’t share. 

No one wrote letters to Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross in France. 

“You have four siblings?” Ryan looked shocked. “What are their names?”

“Kyla, Kara, Matt, and Mason,” Brendon relayed monotonously. Those were their names, weren’t they? Repeat them like song lyrics, just not as elegant. The names sounded wrong on his tongue. It had been so long since he had said them aloud. What were they up to anyway, his siblings? Did any of them live in St. George? Did they wonder what happened to Brendon?

“Wow…” Ryan shook his head in disbelief. “I never knew.”

“Sorry about that,” Brendon mumbled. “Guess it never came up.” 

But it had come up, a million times; Brendon had simply chosen not to speak about it. 

He felt guilty about not saying anything about his family sooner to Ryan. There were still things Ryan Ross didn’t know about him. Things he still kept locked away in a drawer that only he was supposed to be aware of. 

Who knew about Brendon’s family, actually? Not Jon Walker or Eric Ronick. Dallon was the only one who knew anything about Brendon's family; they had one late night talk about it when Brendon was drunk. Brendon hadn’t ever wanted Dallon to know. But alcohol had its way with him. Turned him upside down, toyed with his mind. 

He hadn’t meant to recline back on Dallon’s couch that day and say, drunkenly, “I talked to my mom today.” But he had. And he couldn't take the words back.

Dallon had looked over at him in surprise, a beer bottle balanced in one hand and said, “What? Your mom? What’d you talk to her for?”

“Had to,” Brendon replied. He drank too much those days and he smoked too many cigarettes. “She had to know.

“Know what?” Dallon had asked. 

Brendon had flashed him a sloppy, toothy grin with half-lidded eyes. “I’m goin’ to France, Dal.”

Dallon had scoffed. “You’re what?”

“France!” Brendon had hiccuped. “Isn’t it fantastic! I been picked. I get’ta go. Isn’t it great?”

_I get to die in two weeks. Isn’t it amazing? All I've ever wanted._

Dallon had only stared at him, horrified. Brendon wished he had found a better opportunity to tell Dallon he had enlisted. That he was finally free to kill himself on his own terms. And it was his own terms. It would have been a terrible thing to die in Clearfield. He was rotting in Clearfield. He had to get out. _Had_ to. And the chance had arisen in the form of a letter and trip to France to fight Nazis. 

The only time he had talked to his mother when he was in Clearfield, rotting away and planning his death. Over the phone that afternoon when he had called her up before he went to Dallon's house, already tipsy on two drinks. 

Said to his mother over the phone when she answered, “Hey, Ma.”

“Brendon?” She had asked. She didn't sound like she loved him anymore. 

“Uh huh.” Brendon’s mind had forgotten what he wanted his mouth to say. He blamed the alcohol but it wasn't the drink's fault. It was his own. 

“Sweetie,” his mother had said to him. “Hello. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Brendon answered, never having been less fine. “How are you?”

“I’m doing well; your father and I are well.” There was a long pause where she waited for Brendon to speak and he didn’t. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. “Why are you calling, Brendon?”

“I had to,” Brendon said back to her quietly, doing his best to keep his voice even. “I’ve been uh… I enlisted, Ma. In the army, you know. Like all the other boys. And I’m—I’m going to France soon. I just thought you should know that.” 

His mother had been quiet on the other end. She mumbled out, “Oh.”

“Okay.” He nodded to himself. “Bye, Mom.”

“Brendon—”

“I said bye.”

And Brendon hung up the phone on his own mother. Not that he didn’t love her. He did. But he didn’t want to carry on a conversation with her where she asked what he was doing and he couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t tell her that he lived in a shitty apartment and couldn’t keep a job more than a few months and that he was sucking dick in any alleyway or grungy bar bathroom he could find. Didn’t want to tell her he was ready to kick the bucket in France—that's why he was going; to put a bullet in his skull and claim it martyrdom instead of suicide. And the hundred dollar question, why? Why did he want to die? Because he didn’t have anything else to do. 

He loved his mother and his father. And he loved Kyla and Kara and Matt and—even though he thought he was a faggot; even though he wanted him dead—Mason. He loved them all. But they didn’t fit. He didn’t fit. The Urie family of St. George was a puzzle that shouldn’t have been made in the first place.

Dallon had stared at him, sitting in his loveseat across from the couch, holding onto the neck of a beer bottle—cheesy stuff that tasted like cologne—and he asked, “You hung up on her? Nothing else; you hung up on her and didn't say a word. No goodbye, no nothing. Just 'click' and you're gone?”

“Didn’t have anything else I needed to say,” Brendon answered and took a slug of his drink. He was going on five. Dallon had only had half of one. 

“Brendon,” Dallon said, shaking his head. “That was a shit thing to do.”

“I know.” Brendon investigated his bottle. “Believe me. I know it was.”

Dallon had been right then. It was a shit thing to do. To call his mother for the first time in three years just to tell her that. To tell her he was going to die and nothing else. Brendon was a shit person. He came for Christmas every year. That was the only time he saw his family. One day a year and he hated it more every time. Hated forced conversations and carelessly wrapped gifts with stupid things inside that he would never use. 

Brendon was a shit person. Dallon was right for pointing it out to him. 

_Dallon_. 

Oh God, Dallon. Brendon had asked Dallon to leave his apartment and then he had gone and had sex with Ryan Ross. He had sex with Ryan Ross and Dallon was in love with him. Dallon was in love with him, Ryan was in love with him, and Brendon didn’t know why either of them felt that way because he was about as shit as a person could be. 

Brendon had to tell Dallon. He was going to tell him. That was the truth. Brendon was going to tell Dallon Weekes that he loved Ryan. He just didn’t quite know how yet.

“What are they like?” Ryan’s voice came through the static of his thoughts. 

Brendon had time to make a plan. He would tell Dallon at The Church. That night. No more lying. He was going to tell Dallon. Straight on, no dilly-dallying. Look him in the eyes and say, ‘I don’t love you’. He was going to. He could. _I don't love you_. Nothing more to it. 

“Your siblings,” Ryan reiterated, and Brendon focused in on him once more. He tried not to let his distress show in his eyes. Ryan didn’t know what he was thinking. They could talk about it later. They had time. All the time in the world to figure out how to break a heart. 

“What do you mean?” Brendon asked. He needed to think about something else. Something other than Dallon Weekes and his family. But Ryan kept asking questions.

“Were you close to them?” Ryan wanted to know. 

Brendon shrugged, licking at his lips. “I used to be.”

“What happened?” Ryan prompted. 

Brendon shifted, uncomfortable. “Uh…”

He didn’t know why he felt so uneasy. He was willing to tell Ryan just about anything. Ryan wouldn’t think any lesser of him. It was more the topic itself. Brendon hadn’t talked about his family in well over five years. Hadn’t even thought of them really since he left St. George when he was eighteen except for Christmas's. Tried not to, anyway. 

“Just didn’t work out s’all,” he returned silently. “Different people and all that. Didn’t blend well.”

“Oh.” Ryan frowned. “Are they younger than you?”

“All older,” Brendon informed. “By quite a bit too. Mason’s ten years ahead. Guess that would make him thirty-three now—” 

Was Mason really thirty-three? That was old as the hills. Brendon hadn’t seen him in six years. Holy shit, he hadn’t seen his oldest brother in _six_ years. That was an eternity. Did Mason even remember him? 

“And Matt’s thirty now then.”

Matt was in his thirties too? God. Everyone was growing old. 

“That’d make Kara thirty-two and Kyla twenty-eight, I suppose.”

Everyone was old. So old. An entire foot already in the grave. Brendon felt like a child all of a sudden, like he was too young to even be alive at all. Nothing but a little boy in a grown man’s world. Everyone else had lived entire lives, gotten married, had stable jobs. Had families of their own. But Brendon had seen things. Seen more than any of them. Brendon Urie had been to war. 

Had Matt or Mason gone? Draft only stopped once you were forty-five and neither of them were that old. Brendon enlisted when he was twenty-one. Matt at twenty-eight and Mason at thirty-one then. Had they gone to war? What if they had? What if his brothers were dead? 

There was a heavy pit in his stomach. 

His brothers could be dead and he would have no way to know it. 

“Wow,” Ryan said, unaware of the rabbit hole Brendon’s mind was tumbling down. 

He needed to get a grip. This wasn’t the time to think about death. He had just had sex for Christ’s sake. You shouldn’t go from sex to death in a matter of minutes. Brendon had just said he loved someone for the first time and heard it said back to him. Why would he be upset now? Fuck his brain. Fuck it. 

“You don’t talk to them anymore?” Ryan asked. 

Brendon puckered his lips. “No.”

“How come?” 

Brendon directed his eyes to the ceiling. “I’m not like them, my family. We don’t… Different minds. I never wanted to stay around, you know? Never planned to stay there—with them—any longer than I had to. Always wanted to be anywhere else.”

Ryan nodded and he looked up too. 

Two men sitting in a bed together, covered in cold sweat and bodies only concealed by one clean blanket, legs touching at the thighs as they stared up at a bedroom ceiling. Oh, what Brendon’s family would say about him, loving a man. What Mason would say to him. Always was a faggot, always will be. Brendon was proud to be a faggot. Proud to be sick. 

When Ryan spoke, his voice was small. “I know the feeling.”

Brendon tilted his head down. He asked, “You ever plan to leave your dad?”

“All the time,” Ryan said in a chuckle but it didn’t sound like a joke. He shifted in the bed and reached up to rub at his forehead with two fingers like he was accumulating a headache. “Not seriously though, I don’t think. I never really… _planned_ anything. Nothing like running away. I mean I… I don’t know, Bren. I never thought there would be anything else other than that.”

Brendon turned to find Ryan still staring up, whiskey eyes dancing across the texture of Brendon’s ceiling, his hands sitting in his lap, fiddling with his own fingers. He seemed restless. Brendon gazed for a second down at the fidgeting hands before he took a breath and reached into Ryan’s lap to retrieve one. 

Why was holding hands scarier than sex to Brendon Urie? 

He pushed down the anxiety and took one of Ryan’s hands, lacing his fingers with it. Ryan didn’t hesitate for a moment. Held it back without so much as a word. Accepted the question Brendon posed and, a beat later, squeezed it reassuringly. 

Brendon loved him. Really, really loved him.

“I don’t think I ever thought about leaving Vegas,” Ryan went on, keeping Brendon’s hand in his. “Not really.”

“I wanted to leave St. George every day of my goddamn life,” Brendon muttered, and he couldn’t take his eyes off their interlocked hands in Ryan’s lap on top of the blanket. Ryan's hands felt different than Dallon's. Not as soft. Harder but they were still less rough than his own. There was still a difference. 

“St. George?” Ryan repeated. “Is that where your family lives?”

“Yeah. I grew up there.”

“What’s it like?” Ryan asked him. 

“Cramped,” Brendon answered after a thought. “White churches with stain glass windows and full of people in cheap suits that spit at you when you walk by. I hated that place, Ryan. I hated it so much.”

“I hate Las Vegas,” Ryan agreed and Brendon finally broke his gaze from their hands to be met instantly with Ryan’s eyes staring intently back at him. 

Brendon's voice was low and he tried not to sound too hopeful. Tried not to sound too desolate. “Does that mean you’re not going back then?”

Ryan let out a sigh. “Look Bren—”

“Why?” Brendon interrogated, desperation clawing at his voice. He couldn’t have Ryan leave. Not in the middle of all this. “You don’t even like that man. You _hate_ your dad. Why would you leave? Why would you leave me and—”

“I’m not leaving you,” Ryan interrupted sharply. No malice, only intent. “I’m _not_.”

“But you said—”

“I said I have to settle house payments,” Ryan replied, voice even. “I have to plan the funeral and-and do something about that damn house, Bren. We have to look over his will; if the bastard even left one. I can’t just drop off the map. I’ve done that to Z twice now. I can’t do it a third time.”

“Z,” Brendon said. “Right.”

“I’m not saying I’m gonna stay in Las Vegas,” Ryan continued. “I’m _definitely_ not saying that. I don’t plan to. Not any longer than I have to. But it’s my father’s _funeral_ , Bren. That’s the sort of thing you’re not supposed to miss.”

“Love a good funeral,” Brendon grunted softly and Ryan’s small frown twisted instantly into a smile. Brendon went on, doing his best to mimic Dan Pawlovich’s slurred accent from a day in ’43 with greenie Mike Naran, “You ever think about how stupid a funeral is? Some party to celebrate someone who isn’t even there to see it. Plain dumb. I don’t want a funeral if I die. Want ‘em to stuff me in the ground, plant a headstone, and keep kicking on their own goddamn thing.”

Ryan laughed, recognizing the idiotic monologue. “See? Dan would want me to go.”

“You think?” Brendon asked, grinning lopsidedly. 

“Sure, he would.” Ryan shook his head as if in awe before saying, “I can’t believe you remember all that.”

“I can’t either.” Brendon snorted. “Jackass leaves an impression.” 

“Right about that…” Ryan smiled. “I wonder what he’s doing now.”

“Who, Dan?” Brendon asked and Ryan nodded. “I don’t have a goddamn clue. Probably something stupid with a lousyliz close by.”

Ryan cackled. “You’re probably right.”

“I wish I knew what that prick was up to,” Brendon hummed and he rubbed a thumb over the back of Ryan’s hand which he still hadn’t let go of. Ryan didn’t say anything, just kept on holding back. “You still don’t remember where he got off?”

“Wish to Hell I did,” Ryan answered. 

“What about Naran?” Brendon wondered. “You remember where his home was?”

“Somewhere cold, I think.” Ryan frowned. “Maybe warm.”

“Very helpful.”

“Wait, wait, I remember!” Ryan cheered like he finally had all of life’s questions answered. Brendon couldn’t help but smile at the sudden enthusiasm. “He was from Connecticut! You remember his ma’s letter he got? Four months in, maybe. You remember? Shelton, Connecticut, it said. Mike Naran from Shelton, Connecticut.”

“Hot damn,” Brendon said, vaguely registering the name. “Wonder what he’s up to over there.”

“I haven’t got a goddamn clue,” Ryan said through a grin. “Probably something to do with a pistol and his other foot.”

Brendon shouldn’t have laughed. He shouldn’t have. It wasn’t a very funny thing, shooting yourself in the foot. But he did, proud and joyful, the sound bouncing off his walls back to them sitting in bed together, two men with only a blanket to cover them, holding hands.

Oh, what the world would think of them. Disgusting. Faggots. Two men loving one another. But the world didn’t know what Ryan Ross and Brendon Urie got up to in their free time. Didn't know about slow kisses and Ryan's terrified eyes when he saw a bottle of Pompeian oil. Didn't know about Ryan Ross sitting in Brendon's bathtub with bruises on his face because his dad hit him. Didn't know about Brendon's dead man rings or Ryan's baby bible. The world didn't know Brendon Urie or Ryan Ross. And it didn’t need to know. 

There was a whole other universe, just for Brendon and Ryan and their kisses and for their hands to hold one another. Right in Clearfield, Utah in Brendon Urie’s apartment with the lights off and nothing but sunshine to illuminate the space and Ryan Ross’s hand in his own. That was the only world Brendon wanted to live in. 

“I bet he’s married now,” Brendon decided thoughtfully. “Some gentle broad that kisses his cheek and thinks he left war some sort of hero.”

“I hope he’s not,” Ryan replied. “I’d be pissed I wasn’t invited.”

Brendon almost laughed but then paused, deciding against it. He sent Ryan an odd look. “You think he’d invite us to his wedding if he had one?”

Ryan pursed his lips. “I don’t know. If I ever did something big like that, I think I’d want him there. Dan too, as much as I hate the prick.” His voice was melancholic. “Closest thing to brothers I’ve ever had.”

Brendon’s smile faded from his face. He opened his mouth and closed it, trying to think of something to say. He never knew what it was not to have siblings. Not that he was exceedingly close with any of his own. Obviously not. He hadn’t talked to them in over four years. But Dan Pawlovich and Mike Naran? They had been with him every day in France until Mike shot himself in the foot and Dan hopped off the train first. 

Dan hadn’t even said good-bye properly. Just a dip of his head, a mocking salute with a limp wrist, and a sneer on his lips. No wishes of luck in the real world, the world away from war—a place Brendon and Ryan had forgotten—just a movement and an expression that could have been either a smile or a scowl. Brendon never knew. 

Where had Dan gotten off? Brendon wished his memory was better. 

“I think I’d like to pay Mike a visit,” Ryan joked after a beat. “It might be good to see him. What he’s doing these days. See if he walks funny.”

“You walk funny,” Brendon pointed out. 

“We could bond over it.”

Brendon smiled sadly. “You’re right. Like you always are. It would be nice to see him. Shelton, Connecticut, you said? That’s not that far.”

“Yeah only forty hours by train,” Ryan agreed in a snort. 

“Could be longer.”

“That’s true.” Ryan rolled his eyes playfully. “It could be in Africa. Thank God it’s so close. We really lucked out on that one.”

“We should go now,” Brendon blurted. He didn’t know why his mouth said that. Didn’t know why he was saying anything at all, especially about driving across the country to see someone like Mike Naran. He needed to stop talking. Never felt like the right thing. 

Ryan appeared similarly as alarmed; his whiskey eyes big when he looked at Brendon. His eyebrows were raised, and his hair was screwed up, forehead damp with sweat. The blankets only went up to his naval and he hunched forward when he sat. 

Brendon took a breath. “We should. To see Mike. We should go now.”

“Bren…” Ryan said slowly, and that wasn’t a good start, “I have a funeral to go to—”

“A party really, if you were listening to Dan.”

“A party then.” Ryan’s smile was indulgent and nothing more. “I have a party to go to and you have a gay club to sing at. We can’t just run off to Connecticut, Bren; we have things to do. And besides, we don’t have the money to do that.”

“We could find the money to do that,” Brendon argued and the more he spoke the better the idea sounded to him. Running off to Connecticut with Ryan Ross; that sounded like a dream. No Dallon Weekes there to fall in love with him. No gay bar closets to kiss in. No Jon Walker who talked down to him and no Eric Ronick—as well-intentioned as he was—pestering him about writing songs. 

Just Ryan. No one else. 

Ryan Ross, a two-day train ride, a baby bible, and Mike Naran. Why did Brendon want to do that? He didn’t care about Mike Naran. Or maybe he did. How did he know if he cared or not? What did he feel towards Mike? It was an irritation when Mike did something that Brendon didn’t like. A constant yearning to hit him upside the head when he said something stupid. A want to take his gun from him and—even though he was only a year younger than Brendon—say that he was too much of a child to be carrying. Even if they were in war. 

Brendon sat there and stared at Ryan who stared back and wondered to himself if that was how Matt and Mason thought of him. 

“You really wanna go to Shelton?” Ryan confirmed, quirking a brow in question, and Brendon didn’t exactly know what the answer to that was. He didn’t, not really. Shelton, Connecticut was just another place. But it wasn’t Las Vegas that Ryan hated and it wasn’t St. George where Brendon’s brother called him a faggot and it wasn’t Clearfield where Dallon Weekes kissed him in closets and Brendon fell in love with Ryan. 

Shelton was clean and it was pure and Brendon wanted a new place to ruin. 

“Bren, you know I can’t do that. _We_ can’t do that,” Ryan said and Brendon heaved a small sigh. Ryan, noticing the shift in mood, clutched onto Brendon’s hand a little tighter. “Maybe after the funeral.”

So, Ryan was still going back to Las Vegas, Nevada to watch them put his father in the ground. There was no stopping that. Nothing Brendon could do and he knew that. Painfully, he knew that. 

“Yeah…” Brendon nodded glumly. “Maybe after.”

“What would you even wanna see Mike Naran for anyhow?” Ryan asked, trying to keep his voice light but there was something about the question that was dark. “Aren’t you pissed at him? For shooting his foot? Getting out before us? You went on about it for ages last Christmas.”

“I think I was allowed to be mad,” Brendon responded. “He got presents and we didn't.”

Ryan laughed. “You think?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Brendon answered, and he couldn’t help sounding bitter. “A new watch and a new tie and the whole town of Shelton probably banded around him and threw him a big parade because he was their sweet little boy that got shot in France. Oh, poor baby.” 

Ryan looked at him for a long time. “Thought you didn’t like parades.”

“What?”

“On the train,” Ryan said. “Back. You said you didn’t want a parade.”

Brendon blinked. He didn’t remember that. “I don’t.”

“So, don’t be jealous if Mike got one,” Ryan shot back with a grin. “So what if Mike Naran got a parade? Kid deserves it. Shot himself in the foot for God’s sake. Might as well get a parade out of the deal.”

Brendon scoffed and looked at Ryan’s lap where their hands were attached. “Yeah. Should have gotten a medal for having the balls to put a bullet in his foot.”

“Tell you what,” Ryan pronounced. “If I’d known I would have gotten a parade; I’d have shot myself too.”

Brendon laughed and bumped his head into Ryan’s shoulder. “No, you wouldn’t have.”

“You’re right.” Ryan smiled and knocked his shoulder back into Brendon’s head. “Get off me.”

Brendon raised an eyebrow and a smirk was quick to form. 

“Don’t start,” Ryan warned with a roll of his eyes, and Brendon laughed again in reply. He wanted to make some sort of joke but didn’t get the chance as Ryan leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, far too soft a gesture for two people to even share and Brendon was rendered speechless. 

Ryan shook his head, chuckling to himself as he moved away. He held Brendon’s hand with both of his own, gentle and stable; no indication of ever letting go. 

He said thoughtfully, after a beat, “I sorta wonder, y’know, what Mike and Dan would think of us now. Think of this.”

Brendon looked from Ryan—who had his eyes directed to his lap—to their intertwined hands and realized exactly what Ryan was inferring. What Mike and Dan would think of _them_. Of them having sex and kissing each other and saying 'I love you' and meaning it. Of them being faggots. Not that Mike and Dan would ever know. No one would ever know. No one needed to. 

A whole other world, just for them. It wasn't meant for anyone else. 

But there was a sudden sick feeling to Brendon’s stomach as he imagined sitting down to have a beer with Mike Naran and Dan Pawlovich, next to Ryan Ross, and one of them asking what their dame situation was. 

Would Ryan be able to lie? Or would the guilt be too much for someone like him? Someone that good and that caring. What was Ryan like when he dated Z? Did he show her off? Hold her hand in public and introduce her as his ‘girlfriend’? 

Brendon swallowed thickly, unable to take his eyes off their hands in Ryan’s lap. He wished the world was different. “I don’t know, Ry.”

Ryan nodded. “Huh.”

“You know they won’t get to know, right?” Brendon clarified. “About this. Us. _No_ one is going to know.”

“Eric knows,” Ryan responded easily. 

“Eric’s a freak,” Brendon replied, and Ryan snorted. “He knows everything and, frankly, it terrifies me. But he won’t tell anyone—”

“He told Jon.”

“He what?”

“Told Jon that I’ve been staying with you,” Ryan chorused. “Nothing else other than that, but Jon implied—I think it’s safe to say Jon Walker knows more than he lets on.”

Brendon scowled. He hadn’t ever wanted Jon to know about his personal life. He liked Jon, sort of. Kind of. Maybe a tiny bit on a good day. To put it in simple terms, Jon Walker was his boss and he paid Brendon to sing and Brendon needed money. That was about as far as their relationship needed to go. 

However, when Jon was drunk and sat at the bar across from Brendon and talked aimlessly about love and his wife kicking him out and fucking clouds, Brendon hadn’t hated him so much. In fact, he had almost _enjoyed_ Jon Walker’s company. 

“Well no one else should know,” Brendon decided firmly. 

He felt Ryan’s hands shift on his. Worried. Ryan looked at Brendon with round eyes. He paused before he said, faintly, “Dallon?”

Of course Ryan had to bring that up. Of course he did. 

Brendon grimaced, sitting up straighter against the headboard of his bed. The blankets slid and he used the hand not holding Ryan’s to keep it covering him. He kept the soft fabric in a fistful; something to ground him. 

“I’m gonna tell him,” Brendon affirmed. Because he was. He _was_ going to tell Dallon. “Tonight, I will. I’ll just tell him that you and I… that he and me… that we—”

Or perhaps there was an easier way to say it. Look Dallon right in those heartbreaker blue eyes, flash a smile and say, _I don’t love you_. 

“I’ll figure it out,” he murmered. He would. He had to. 

Ryan was silent for a second, clasping Brendon’s hand before he said, “I’m sorry.”

Brendon frowned, tilting his head up. “What for?” 

Why would Ryan be sorry? He had nothing to be sorry for. Brendon had a lot he’d like to apologize about, especially to Dallon. And Dallon should apologize for kissing him in the first place. For being in love with him at all. For his shit timing. Brendon was sorry for pretending to love him back. 

Ryan didn’t have a damn thing to be sorry for. 

But he answered softly, “Kissing you.”

Brendon laughed a little too sad for his own liking, a pitiful sound. He said, “It’s alright, Ryan. Don’t be sorry.”

Ryan rubbed a thumb over the back of Brendon’s hand. He whispered, “I didn’t mean to fuck things up for you.”

“I know you didn’t,” Brendon said. 

“I’m sorry I fucked things up.” 

“You didn’t.” Brendon let out a breath. “I fucked them up myself.” 

The silence loomed between them, booming and unwelcome. Brendon should tell the silence off. It shouldn’t have been there. It wasn’t invited and it didn’t need to hang around. 

“I’m gonna tell Dallon. I will. Tonight,” Brendon stated, determined. “I will.”

Ryan heard the way his voice faltered, and he said—a fact, “You love him.” 

“Not that way,” Brendon answered without missing a beat. “I do. But not… not the same way I feel about you. You understand that? Two different sorts of love.”

Brendon removed his hands from Ryan’s and took one of Ryan’s hands, pulling it into his own lap. A fair trade-off, and Ryan watched as Brendon started to play with his fingers, rubbing over his knuckles and the back of his hand. 

“Not the same way I love you.”

Ryan inhaled. His voice was lowered when he said, “I love you too, you know.”

Those words were so odd coming from someone else’s mouth. _I love you_. How strange. What a strange, strange concept. Brendon couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. He loved the way Ryan said it. Loved the way those words sounded out loud. He had always wondered what those words would sound like coming out of Ryan’s mouth. And now he knew.

Sweeter and sweeter every time. 

“I like hearing you say that,” Brendon mumbled, and he couldn’t stop toying with Ryan’s fingers. Slender and narrow, easy to admire, and made to be held. 

“I’ll say it again if you want,” Ryan said. 

“Please do.”

Ryan slipped his hand carefully from Brendon’s hold and reached up to take him by the chin with his thumb and index finger, tilting his head up to see Ryan’s face, staring at him with those whiskey eyes of his. He observed Brendon for a reaction as he said, “I love you.”

Brendon grinned; he couldn’t help it. Those words were gorgeous; unlike any others. Why did other words even exist when there were those? 

Brendon said back, “I love you too.” And kissed him slowly.

That sugar taste. How did Ryan Ross manage that? How did he manage to do so many things? To look that small, that easy to love. Ryan had said it about his girlfriend Elizabeth. Said that she was 'easy to love'. Brendon wondered why Ryan didn’t realize the same thing about himself.

Ryan Ross was _made_ to be loved. 

Ryan’s fingers ran down Brendon’s neck, slowly, and it was like he was trying to memorize Brendon’s body. Felt over his clavicle and his fingernails grazed the flesh there, how it stretched over the bones. 

Brendon wondered what was going through his head. What Ryan thought about the two of them sitting up in bed together, blankets around their laps, Brendon with a boy he needed to break the heart of, Ryan Ross with a party in Nevada to go to. Wondered if Ryan thought about the world the same way he did. If he realized there were two. One for him and Brendon and another for the other people. 

He let Ryan’s hand dance across his stomach, over his abdominal muscles and around to his spine. Ryan’s hand came to rest on the dimples in his back, pressing the pads of his fingers into the curve of the flesh. 

Ryan broke off the kiss, resting his forehead against Brendon’s, and their noses were squashed together. He said, to no one but the space in between their mouths, “I’m gonna sell the house.”

Brendon blinked, leaning back slightly. Their bodies were still close together and Ryan’s hand didn’t move from his lower back. Brendon’s hands rested in his lap. 

Ryan spoke again, this time to Brendon, “I’m gonna sell my house. In Las Vegas. And then I’ll have money, and whatever the hell my dad left to me, and you and I will go to Shelton and we’ll see Mike Naran’s dumb ass and throw him a parade if his family hasn't already.” 

Brendon stared at him. “We will?”

“Sure, we will,” Ryan told him. “Why wouldn’t we? Seems the thing to do, doesn’t it?”

Brendon let out a breathy laugh, a scoff of surprise. He loved Ryan. He and Ryan could go to Shelton, Connecticut and see Mike Naran. Could see how he was and what the rest of the world had to offer. Oh, the possibilities were endless. Everywhere in the world to go. 

“Maybe,” Brendon proposed. “You could finally give Mike his bible back.”

Ryan snorted. “No, I-I can’t give that back to him.”

“How come?” Brendon asked. “You love your baby bible too much to let it go?”

“I love my baby bible more than anything else in the world,” Ryan responded, faux-serious. 

Brendon darted his eyes around his face. He didn’t say what he was thinking. That he loved Ryan more than any stupid bible there ever was. And Ryan didn’t say anything either.

“But I couldn’t give it back to him anyhow,” Ryan went on. “I don’t think Mike’ll want it back.”

Brendon furrowed his brow. “Why not?”

Ryan chuckled and shook his head, as if asking himself a silly question before he moved away from Brendon, pulling the covers with him, right off Brendon and there was a breeze all of a sudden on his exposed lower half. 

“Hey!” Brendon exclaimed, covering himself with both hands, scowling after Ryan. “What the hell?”

Ryan wrapped the blanket around him as if he were getting out of a shower and turned to look at Brendon proudly. His eyes skimmed over Brendon's body, sitting up in the bed with no covers, hands clamped over his dick. 

Ryan laughed again and, with one hand holding onto the blanket to keep it around him, gestured to Brendon’s body, where his hands were concealing him. “Don’t do that. You look good.” 

Brendon guffawed and ducked his head. It didn’t change the fact that he was naked, sitting on his bed with nothing to cover himself and Ryan was prancing around his bedroom with the blanket wrapped around him as if he were a dame. Not to mention that there was a slight draft in the room and Brendon was getting cold. 

Ryan bent down to his pack which he had put in the corner of the room in the darkness and Brendon craned his neck to see what Ryan was doing but couldn’t get a good view on account that it was shadowed too heavily. 

What time was it? He needed to check soon; he had to be heading to The Church at some point.

Ryan straightened back up and returned to the bedside. He had the baby bible in one hand and he bent to give it to Brendon who—because the opportunity had arisen—tried to snatch the blanket from around Ryan’s waist. 

Ryan jumped back, out of Brendon’s grasp, securing the blanket around him. 

Brendon glowered, sitting back on the mattress with a baby bible thrown beside him, abandoned on the bed. He leaned back, sprawled out successfully and no longer covering himself, his bare body on full show for Ryan to gaze at, and said, with a smile, tilting his head to the side, “Fuck you.”

“I did.”

The moment the words were out in the air, Ryan’s eyes went wide, and his mouth hung open like he couldn’t believe what he had just said. Couldn't believe what vulgar things had just parted his no-longer-virgin lips. 

Brendon laughed loudly in surprise at the scandalized expression Ryan sported. 

“I am—” Ryan started

“Right,” Brendon interrupted before Ryan had the chance to embarrass himself further. Brendon couldn’t stop smiling. “You're right. You did.”

Ryan continued to stare at him. 

“And, I assume,” Brendon went on; Ryan across from him, holding a blanket around him. “That you’ll do it again; so don’t look too scared, huh?”

Ryan let out a nervous scoff, and it was cute how red he had become, his cheeks flushed with a cherry coloring. Ryan glanced at the floor and then back up at Brendon. His forehead creased. “I did do it right, didn’t I?”

Brendon chortled again; he couldn’t help it; no one had ever asked him that before. And Brendon had been with his fair share of men. Not a single one, though, had looked at him in the eyes with a towel around their waist and fear in their face, cheeks rosy, and asked if they had done it correctly. Men didn’t care if they did it right. They just cared that they got off. 

Granted, not a single one had told Brendon they loved him before either. 

Ryan Ross was successfully one of a kind. 

“Yes, Ryan,” Brendon answered. “Yes, you did it right.”

Ryan nodded his head hurriedly. “Okay… okay, good.”

“It was,” Brendon said. Ryan sent him a quick look and Brendon finally snapped his gaze back to the baby bible that sat beside him so he wouldn’t get distracted for any longer. “Now tell me, why can’t Mike Naran have this back?”

Ryan watched as he picked it up, examining the way the pages were curled where he had bent it. 

“If it’s because of the folded corner I don’t think—”

“Open it,” Ryan instructed. 

Brendon frowned, throwing him a funny look, but didn’t question any further as he opened the pocket bible up, thumbing through the pages, glancing across the black words. His eyes couldn’t help but go slightly large at the insides of the book. 

Detailed notes in the margins, scribblings in Ryan’s scratchy handwriting that meant something. Messy words thrown over the pages in smudged lead and graphite. Underlined phrases and circled words. And then in the margins, between chapters, and in paragraph breaks there were drawings. 

Brendon opened the book wider in his lap to examine the doodles of large eyes, colored in with black and the curves of lips and a sketch of a dog tag. He turned the pages and there were more. Every few pages there was another scribbling of rings or a silver chain. And Brendon’s name written next to verses. Next to lines with arrows pointing to them. 

‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’ the baby bible said in fine print. And next to the phrase, in a barely readable font, Ryan Ross had written: _5-10-43 — B. Urie_.

Brendon looked up at Ryan, standing there in silence with a blanket around him in Brendon’s bedroom. 

“What is this?” Brendon asked, voice shallow. 

Ryan shrugged. Nothing too important. “My baby bible.”

Brendon looked back at it and turned the pages. He shook his head in disbelief and he said, awed, “This is me.”

“Yeah,” Ryan admitted, hugging his hands around his middle. “It is. So, I think it’s safe to say Mike probably won’t want it back. Not when I’ve turned it into the ‘Book of Brendon’ instead of a bible.”

Brendon shut it with a thwack and stood, crossing the short distance between them in two short strides and kissed Ryan without warning. Hard and with his eyes squeezed shut and Ryan kissed him back, taking his hands from the blanket to grab Brendon’s hips. 

There was nothing else for Brendon to do other than kiss him. There weren’t words. What were words for? Brendon said the wrong ones anyway. Actions spoke louder. The only words that mattered were ‘I love you’ when they came out of Ryan Ross’s mouth. Otherwise, words weren’t worth jackshit.

Brendon ran his hands up Ryan’s arms, up and around his neck, holding him in place. Holding him there in Brendon’s bedroom with Ryan in a blanket and Brendon naked. It didn’t matter. It was so perfect. It was all so perfect. 

They pulled away from one another; Ryan smiling like a lovestruck moron. 

“You’re right, again,” Brendon told him and Ryan cocked his head in question. “You can’t give the bible back.”

Ryan laughed before he said, “I told you. I love it more than anything.”

Brendon shoved him gently in the chest, so Ryan stepped back. “Jesus. You usually go around saying stuff like that?”

“Yeah, I like to tell the truth,” Ryan answered, laughing to himself, and Brendon had to laugh with him. 

Ryan Ross couldn’t go around saying things like that. He was perfecting the art of flirtation and Brendon didn’t know what he would do when Ryan finally figured it out. Figured out what his smile did to Brendon’s heart. 

“You’re a fucking romantic,” Brendon accused. “I knew it.”

Ryan only nodded with that same wide smile on his face that made Brendon’s heart drop into his stomach. He needed to kiss that boy. Kiss that boy and love him until he couldn’t anymore. It was the only thing he could think to do. 

“I’m gonna get my clothes,” Ryan decided to say and that time Brendon didn’t protest no matter how much he wanted to. Common sense had to win at some point. He needed some clothes too. They left quite the mess in the living room. Brendon glanced over his shoulder to the soiled covers on the ground and grimaced. They left quite the mess everywhere. 

Ryan turned and walked out of the bedroom and back into the living room. Brendon watched after him with a small sigh. That boy was his. Ryan Ross was his. Things were looking up. 

He retrieved the bottle of Pompeian oil from the bedside table, the neck of the bottle slick where Ryan had held it after he had fingered Brendon. Brendon felt his lips quirk lightly at the memory. Ryan was good. Ryan was very good. He could only imagine how good he would be when he actually knew what the hell he was doing.

He wandered into the living room to see Ryan pulling on his briefs—what a shame that was, covering that svelte figure up—and crossed into the kitchen, putting the bottle back into the cabinet. 

“Now what?” Ryan asked as he collected his clothes off the floor and into a heap in arms.

 _Now what?_ That was always the question. Ryan and Brendon had sex for the first time. Now what? Now Brendon went and broke Dallon’s heart and Ryan went to Las Vegas to the funeral of a man he didn’t even care about. 

But what Brendon said out loud was, “Now I sing.”

“At The Church?” Ryan asked, glancing over his shoulder. 

“Uh huh,” Brendon nodded and walked over, still naked, and Ryan didn’t pretend not to look him over. Not that Ryan _had_ to pretend. They were well acquainted with one another’s bodies at that point. Ryan could look wherever he wanted. Brendon liked being looked at. “And I talk to Dallon.”

Ryan passed Brendon his briefs and Brendon reluctantly got into them. Now they were two men, neither in a blanket and neither of them naked. Both as equally undressed. Their little world was slipping away by the minute. Soon they would be like anyone else. Brendon hated it. 

“I think I’m gonna take a shower though,” Brendon informed. “I stink like sex.”

Ryan flushed pink again and Brendon smiled as he turned to see the clock to see how long he could shower for. If Ryan and he had time to take separate ones or if he should invite Ryan to shower with him. That might be nice no matter how much time they had. No, not might. That would be nice. That was a lovely plan. Ryan and Brendon standing in his tiny shower together, water sliding off bodies, clean and warm. Brendon's dick liked that idea. Oh, that was the plan. That was definitely the plan. 

6:52 the clock read.

Brendon blinked. _What. There is no way that it’s—_ He checked the clock again, to be sure, and he felt his heart rate begin to pick up. 

6:53

“What the hell?” He asked aloud, turning back to Ryan, thoughts of showers forgotten. “Is it six fifty-three?”

Ryan looked at the clock. “Yeah?”

“Holy cow,” Brendon cursed, scrambling to grab his clothes off the floor. “I’m gonna be late to sing. Why the hell is it so late? How long did we sleep for? Why do we keep sleeping so goddamn late? Fuck, Ryan, I’m gonna be late. We slept for like eight hours. Shit!”

He started kicking into his pants, tugging his sweater over his head without his undershirt. 

Ryan watched, unsure what to say, and he protested, “I thought you said you were going to shower—” 

“I don’t have time,” Brendon rushed, working on getting his clothes on. “Why does this keep happening? What are you doing standing there? Get dressed.”

“O-oh.” Ryan paused. “You _want_ me to come?”

When Brendon didn’t answer, just kept shoving his body into his trousers and sweater, Ryan put his wrinkled clothes back on, his suspenders loosened from when Brendon had tugged on them, but it wasn’t so bad. He didn’t look that bad. 

Brendon sat up, crazed black eyes and only one of his shoes on so he could look at Ryan. At Ryan whose hair was messy and cheeks were rosy and there was still sweat on his brow and his clothes were creased where Brendon’s hands had grabbed. Brendon looked between Ryan and him. 

He said, breathless, “God, we look like we fucked.”

Ryan laughed cautiously, peering down at himself, picking at the buttons of his shirt. “I can stay here if you—”

“No. I need you to come with me,” Brendon stopped him without thinking about it. It was the truth. He needed Ryan to be there. He couldn’t go in and talk to Dallon alone. He couldn’t do that. 

“Okay.” Ryan put on his orvals. “Whatever you want.”

There was a difference between wanting and needing. For Brendon, Ryan was a matter of both.

Brendon finally managed to get all his clothes on and he stood, dusting himself off. As if he could rid the smell of sex and Ryan from his person. He doubted it worked—knew it didn't—and Ryan didn’t say anything as they walked to the door. 

All he did was catch Brendon by the arm with those slender fingers of his that were made to be held, and kissed him once gently on the lips—like he loved him in the most exquisite way—before they walked outside. 

Back into the real world that didn’t want them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized the last five chapters of my outline were really atrocious (and frankly, a bit too angsty) so I went through and rewrote the ending of this fic (for the third time) but I am so much happier with this ending and I think you guys will like it more as well. That being said, thanks so much for your patience and reading it at all.  
> (also another fucking chapter posted after midnight; I am going to throw hands with time itself, I swear to fuck)


	31. A Sacred, Stupid Thing

Ryan used to walk down the street in Las Vegas with Z at his side, hand in hand. He did the same thing when he dated Keltie Walked down the street, the whole world able to see them, fingers intertwined as their hands clasped together. There was something about that gesture. Such a kind thing, holding someone’s hand. Such a bold thing. It said something. Said, _this? This thing right here that I’m attached to? It’s mine. This is mine._

And it hadn’t clicked in Ryan’s head until Brendon and he were walking down the street in Clearfield and Brendon was a foot away from him, darting his eyes up and down the road like someone could be watching, that Ryan realized he couldn’t hold Brendon’s hand. 

He wanted to. He really did. But Brendon walked away from him, tucking and retucking his shirt into his trousers over and over, his fingers shaking. They really should have changed clothes. Brendon’s outfit looked like a mess and—even though it wasn’t—like his shirt was put on backwards. 

His dog tag was shoved beneath the fabric and where Ryan could usually make out the white of an undershirt, there was nothing but bare skin above Brendon’s collar. 

He had a frantic look to his eyes as they walked, making sure over and over that no one was watching their stroll. There was an urgency to their pace. No running, none of that. Only a faster strut than was specifically needed.

Paranoia. 

Brendon looked like he might be limping. Not bad, just a subtle tilt to the side every now and again or a hop in his step. Ryan wondered if he was the cause of that. Should he be proud if he was?

Ryan’s limp wasn’t so bad. No one would notice it tonight. 

There were far bigger things to pay attention to. Such as Brendon and his sweaty brow, rosy cheeks, darting eyes, and backwards sweater. 

They looked like sex. Smelled like guilt. 

Ryan wondered what the outcome of the night would bring. Brendon was going to tell Dallon. He was. There was no way around it. Even if he didn’t explicitly state it, Dallon wasn’t stupid enough not to piece it together. Dallon was a good, smart man and Ryan felt to blame for breaking his heart.

His heart would be broken. It would. And it was Ryan’s fault. 

Not, necessarily, that he _made_ Brendon fall in love him. He didn’t. And if he had known Brendon was involved in the first place, Ryan wouldn’t have kissed him. He was a respectful person. Ryan Ross wouldn’t kiss someone if they were supposed to be kissing someone else. Or, at least, he told himself he wouldn’t have, anyway. Hoped he was a better person than that. 

He pondered on if it was a bad idea, him coming with Brendon to The Church. On the one hand—the one Brendon wasn’t holding—it would be nice to finally hear him sing in a professional setting. Nice to hear Shit-Bricks-Eric hammer on the piano and Jazz-Voice-Mormon-Raised-Brendon Urie sing along to the melody. Ryan bet it was wonderful and he was more than excited to see it. And he wanted to be with Brendon. That’s all he wanted. Just to be with him. 

But on the other hand. 

Dallon Weekes. Ryan having to watch Brendon tell Dallon that they weren’t involved anymore. That Brendon had sex with Ryan. There were so many different ways that could go. Dallon could be furious. He could try to start a fight, perhaps. Would he? Dallon didn’t look like the kind to start a fight. Looked like the kind who _took_ punches, not gave them out. 

He might try to get Brendon to fall in love with him. Say that he was better than Ryan, that Brendon should love him instead. Ryan didn’t like that option. Not that Brendon would do that. Fall in love with Ryan and then fall out of love just as fast. Brendon wouldn’t. But Ryan’s heart couldn’t stop being afraid. 

Or the final option Ryan could think of. Dallon could say nothing. Dallon could be dead silent, quiet, made of stone. He could turn and walk away from Brendon without a word. Nothing more than heartbroken. And that might be the worst. 

Ryan didn’t know Dallon very well, or at all, but no man deserved that. No man deserved to have Brendon Urie and then lose him. 

Brendon was mouthing things to himself as they walked; things Ryan knew he wasn’t supposed to hear so he did his best not to listen. But he couldn’t help but overhear a soft, “It’s fine. It’ll all be fine.”

He wanted nothing more than to hold Brendon’s hand. 

“Do you have a plan?” he asked warily after they had been walking for some time. 

Brendon licked his lips. “No. Do you have one?”

Ryan shook his head. 

Brendon swallowed. Paced a few steps to the right and came back. His limp was more noticeable than before. “Have you ever broken up with someone before?”

“I thought you said fags don’t date.”

“They don’t,” Brendon reiterated. “It’s just that… I’ve never been with anyone before.”

Ryan sent him a surprised look. 

“In any way other than sexually,” Brendon went on. “Never. You’re the first person that I’ve ever—And Dallon and I… I don’t even know what the hell we are, Ryan. He’s my best friend and he matters to me.”

“You said.”

Brendon’s voice was barely audible. “This is gonna destroy him.”

Ryan would be lying if he said he didn’t feel jealous. Some sort of anger turning around in his belly. “I’ve never broken up with anyone. Only been on the receiving end.”

Brendon bit his teeth together. “Z, right? You loved her?”

“My best friend.”

“And you…” Brendon trailed off. “Even though she broke it off with you—which was a dumbass move on her part—She still loves you and you still love her? Even though she broke your heart?”

“Of course,” Ryan answered without hesitation. “You don’t stop loving someone. Just go on to find new ways of showing it. I think Dallon will be fine. I think he’ll understand if you say it right.”

He didn’t think that. Not at all. But Brendon looked terrified and Ryan couldn’t stand that expression on his face. If Brendon knew he was lying, he didn’t show it. Only nodded his head in reply and took in a breath. 

They didn’t speak anymore as they walked. 

It was a bit past eight by the time they made it to the Walk of Shame, the sign tall and in large font. Bold, precise. _Here we are_ , the sign said, _Here I am_. And there they were. Ryan Ross and Brendon Urie. Terrified. 

Butch was sitting on outside on a stool in front of the door; Ryan could hear music from a jukebox bleeding through the cracks in the wood. His eyes were bored but, upon seeing Ryan and Brendon approach, he sat up abruptly. His bored eyes flickered with interest. 

“Urie,” Butch cheered on their arrival and Brendon flashed him a flat smile. 

“Hey, Butch,” he returned. Cautious. “How you doin’?”

“As good as I can,” Butch answered, grinning. “Where ya been, kid? Jon’s been on full blast for the last ten minutes. Thought you might've died or something.”

Brendon twitched. “Been preoccupied is all.”

Ryan was quite a distraction. 

And, speaking of, Butch’s eyes traveled over to Ryan, searching him up and down. All over his loose suspenders and rumpled hair. Across his guilt-stricken face. There was a pause. Butch glanced between the pair and there was a flash to his eyes like he realized something he shouldn’t have. Ryan’s heart rate picked up. 

“Hey, Ryan,” Butch said, something of a sneer, and Ryan hated that he knew his name. “What about you, pal? Feeling alright?”

“Peachy,” Ryan answered. His voice was strained. 

“Well, I think it’s best that Ryan and I get inside,” Brendon rushed out in no mood to keep up the discussion with Butch. “If Jon really is throwing a fit. Don’t wanna keep him waiting and all that. You know how he gets.”

“Oh, sure.” Butch puckered his lips and nodded, far too knowingly. A smile was curling itself across his lips. He nodded his head towards the door. “Get along now; if you think you have to. Nice seeing you both.” 

Brendon dipped his head anxiously in a goodbye. “You too, Butch.”

He took Ryan by the forearm to usher him inside the large doors and Ryan almost pulled away from him to say ‘you can’t do that in public’ but Brendon’s fingers were tight, digging into his sleeve, and Ryan decided it was best not to say anything. Brendon needed something to hold onto. 

There were hordes of people inside, dancing on one another with the jukebox thundering into the air around them. The smell was disgusting, far too strong, and Ryan debated on whether or not to plug his nose. 

Brendon didn’t stop to speak with any of the patrons, heading straight to the door that Ryan knew led to The Church. Only when he went to knock did he drop his hold on Ryan’s arm. The skin tingled where his grip had once been.

Two rough clicks of the knuckles and one full handed slap. 

Where had that knock come from? That was how Dallon knocked on the door. Was it something Dallon did because of The Church or something The Church did because of Dallon? Why did Brendon do it? Habit or Dallon’s impression or was it actually required? Ryan never asked out loud. 

That same kid from the first time Ryan had come—Allen, wasn’t it?—held the door open for Brendon and Ryan to descend down the stairs. He didn’t say hello to either of them, shutting the door sharply. 

Brendon took the stairs down two at a time and Ryan trotted after. Both of their limps were far too noticeable. He didn’t understand why Brendon was in such a hurry. He couldn’t imagine being in a rush to break a heart. 

“Okay, okay,” Brendon was saying to himself as they reached the basement. Ryan didn’t think Brendon was speaking to him so he didn’t answer. “Okay.”

The Church had significantly fewer people than the upstairs did. Still a full crowd though, only less. It appeared as though most of the people in attendance were employees, however. Like the two bartenders cleaning glasses and someone stocking shelves behind them. The band busying themselves with tuning their instruments. And there was Eric at his piano, tapping away. It was a commotion of random sounds and notes that sounded wrong as Brendon paced into the room. 

Ryan wondered how they managed to find so many gay people in one tiny town like Clearfield.

Brendon stopped towards the center of the room, not yet into the crowd but close enough that they could hear murmured conversations, sending a look around and his gaze caught Eric playing the piano. Ryan saw him visibly stiffen. 

“Hey,” Ryan said before had even formulated a real thought. “Are you sure you want to stay?”

“What?” Brendon stared blankly into the crowd with evil, black eyes. 

“You don’t have to this tonight,” Ryan said even though they both knew Brendon did. “We can go home. I’ll take you home.”

Brendon let out a tiny sigh. “Ryan…”

Brendon turned around to face him, two men face to face in a gay club and they looked they had had sex and one of them needed to break a heart and the other needed to go to a funeral in Las Vegas. An odd situation to be in. Ryan wondered what would happen to Brendon and he after Brendon broke it off with Dallon. 

Ryan had to go to Vegas no matter what. Would he just leave Brendon alone while he was gone? He would come back, sure. There was no doubt about it; he was coming back. Would it be smart to leave Brendon and Dallon alone with one another for a week after Brendon ditched him? Maybe, maybe not. Ryan trusted Brendon. He just didn’t trust Dallon. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Ryan pressed, taking a step towards Brendon, reaching out to take his hand. They were in a gay club. He could hold his hand if he wanted. 

“Yeah,” Brendon replied without thinking about the question. He let Ryan grow closer. “I am.”

“I’m doin’ great too, in case anyone was wondering.”

Ryan and Brendon snapped their heads to the side, stepping away from each other instantly, to see Jon Walker, hands in his pockets and an eyebrow cocked. The suit he was dressed in was fine and his shoes were polished. Although, despite all his finery, he appeared unamused. 

“Nice to see that you decided to show up, B,” Jon said without any more formalities, directing his attention to Brendon who stared back while shoving his hands into his pockets so Ryan couldn’t reach them. The nervous energy drained from him in almost an instant as Jon spoke to him and he stood tall to face his employer, mouth contorting into a defensive scowl. 

Ryan had to smile barely at the expression. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Brendon fired back.

“Yes…” Jon glowered. “You are. And only ten minutes late too, look at that. Listen, B, just because I’m paying you now doesn’t mean you can wander in and out whenever you want on your own time like the rest of the world isn’t good enough for you.”

“When exactly, Jon, did I say I was better than the world?” Brendon asked sharply. “I don’t remember it.”

Jon glared back just as hard. “Didn’t have to say it.”

Brendon bared his teeth. He didn’t seem to have a good argument in mind. 

Jon nodded, realizing Brendon didn’t have anything left to say, and pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “Don’t let it happen again.”

“I won’t,” Brendon growled.

“Tell me though,” Jon asked, waving a hand in the air and Ryan took a step away from it. “Why’re you late in the first place? Never have been before.”

It was then that Jon took the time to skim both Brendon and Ryan over with his eyes, a long line between the two of them. His eyes went over their disheveled appearances, Brendon’s sweater that looked inside out and was definitely over a bare chest. Over Ryan’s loose suspenders and sloppily belted pants. Brendon didn’t even have on a belt. That was the final straw. Brendon didn’t even have a belt on. And finally, Jon Walker’s eyes fell onto Ryan’s guilty expression that he couldn’t dissuade. 

There was no way Jon didn’t know. There was no way he didn’t. 

Jon slowly let his gaze come to rest back on Brendon’s face. Brendon tried not to let it show but it was obvious his stance had faltered, his confidence waning. 

“Wow,” Jon said, unimpressed. That was all. “ _Wow_.”

Brendon was mute as he stared back. Was he supposed to say something in denial, something to defer suspicion? Anything? Anything at all? Maybe Jon didn’t know. But with the way he was looking between Ryan and Brendon with disgust in his eyes, it was clear he did. 

“You’re on in five, B,” he said. There was no emotion. That meant ‘get lost’. 

“Oh,” Brendon looked over his shoulder at Eric playing his piano, a simple tune that Ryan hadn’t chosen to hear until then. It was professional; sweet yet sad. Brendon’s voice would go well with it. Brendon made a turn as though he was going to walk to the stage before he paused, looking at Ryan. Their eyes met for a split second before Brendon looked away.

He said to Jon, the sound coming thick and foreign from his mouth, it didn’t sound like Brendon’s voice, “I was hoping to talk to Dallon before I went on.”

“Course you were,” Jon scoffed. He looked angry. “Little late for that; Dally’s not in.”

Brendon’s face contorted to confusion. “What? Where is he?”

“Out looking for you.”

Brendon’s face fell and Ryan heard his heart drop into his shoes. Dallon was a good guy. He cared about Brendon. He cared about Brendon enough that when he was even slightly late, Dallon went off on a hunt to find him. That must have meant a lot. Brendon’s face was very telling. 

“Something about you being upset this morning; all the drama and whatnot.” When Jon said the word ‘drama’ his eyes instantly went to Ryan. He knew. “Worried you might've skipped. Or uh… done something _stupid_.”

His eyes were focused on Brendon, not showing any sign of breaking away. Ryan couldn’t tell what he was thinking and he didn’t know if he wanted to. 

“He’ll be back in a bit when he can’t find your ass on the street,” Jon carried on drearily. “That or he’ll call the black and whites I guess. Send a search party after your fairy ass. We’ll have to see where the night takes us.” 

“Helpful, Jon,” Brendon mumbled. His determination had completely seeped from his person and he looked at Ryan with fear in his eyes. Ryan gave him a soft smile in return. A smile he hoped was reassuring. 

It must have been because Brendon fixed him with a grateful smile of his own. Half of a smile, anyway. But it was close enough. 

“Go on now,” Jon commanded. “Eric’s lookin’ like he’s gonna pitch a fit up there. Nicole’s off tonight… on account of uh… family problems I think it was.”

Brendon and Ryan looked over their shoulders at Eric who was pounding away at his piano, bobbing his head along to the melody he was creating. Brendon took a heavy sigh and—as he started toward the stage—he said to Ryan in a lowered voice meant for only the two of them, “I’ll tell him after.”

“Sure,” Ryan said. 

Brendon stopped next to him, looking at Ryan with a melancholy stare. Round, evil black eyes that glistened in the glow of The Church. Ryan wanted to reach out and smooth his hair out for him but stayed still. Brendon’s eyes darted from Ryan’s own whiskey eyes to his lips and if Jon didn’t know already, that was enough right there for him to figure it out. 

Ryan resisted the urge to kiss him. 

“I’ll see you,” Brendon said to him quietly. That was the closest thing to an ‘I love you’ Ryan would get. 

“Yeah. Me too,” Ryan replied. He hoped Brendon knew what he meant. 

Brendon smiled as if he did and then turned to jog off to the stage. And then he was out of sight into the crowd and it was Ryan, Brendon-less, in a gay bar called The Church wearing loose suspenders with Jon Walker across from him, smelling like sex and guilt. He peeked up at the other man who stared down at him with contempt. Jon could smell it on him. No doubt about it, he could.

“Hey, Ryro,” Jon greeted, pretending to sound pleased.

“Hi,” Ryan responded. “It’s Ryan, by the way.”

“Long time,” Jon said what was meant to be a joke but that Ryan didn’t find funny. “Whatcha been up to since we last saw each other, Ryro? Feels like years.”

“Not a lot,” Ryan answered. He wasn’t going to let anything away if he didn’t have to. 

“Ah.” Jon nodded his head. “Right. Not a lot.”

There were more people bustling in from the stairs. Eric had stopped playing piano so he could greet Brendon at the edge of the stage. Across the room, Ryan could tell that he was babbling incomprehensibly, gesturing with his hands at Brendon. Ryan could see his mouth moving at a rapid pace and Brendon only nodded or shook his head in reply. 

Jon’s voice came back into Ryan’s ear from a foot away—far too loud for how close they were, “So you haven’t been doing anything… _nefarious_ , perhaps, with my jazz singer then?”

Ryan gritted his teeth. He didn’t say anything, only held eye contact with Jon, a foot away from him. It was a close enough distance to punch him if Ryan saw fit. He wanted to. 

“C’mon,” Jon offered, gesturing with his head to the bar. “It’s a Tom Collins, isn’t it? Your order?”

Ryan nodded. He sounded out of breath. Not a good way to sound. “Yeah.”

“Here.” Jon batted his eyelashes like he was doing something kind. “I’ll make you one. No trouble.” 

Jon walked towards the bar and Ryan followed him like the shadow he was, always stalking and luring people into the darkness. It was a different bar than he had been to the night prior but it looked basically the same. Walk of Shame and The Church. Straights and gays. Practically the same. Just different entry points, really. 

The bars had the same construction; probably the same architect. Wasn’t a bad looking bar in The Church. Just wasn’t different than any other. 

Jon situated himself behind the table easily, not asking the current bartender to move as he shoved past. The bartender didn’t seem to mind though, easily slipping out of Jon’s way as if he knew the routine. 

“You want sugar, Ryro?” Jon asked, pulling out a glass before he stopped himself. “Wait no, I remember. You take yours bitter. Of course. How could I forget.”

Ryan was quiet as Jon started to fix him a glass. 

“Indulge me,” Jon announced after some time and Ryan made a face that signified he didn’t understand what was being asked of him. Jon waved a hand in the air as if that helped. “You know, tell me a story. Ask me a question or two. _Indulge_ me. I’m not gonna serve you a drink in silence. Not how this works.”

“Okay, I’ve got a question,” Ryan decided, hoping he could keep Jon distracted from Brendon and him. 

“Shoot.”

“Are you drunk?” Ryan asked. 

Jon smirked as he slid a glass of Tom Collins across the bar. “Good question. Always. Do I get to ask you one now?”

“You said I had to indulge you. Never said you have to indulge me,” Ryan responded, not sure if that sounded right or not. “Don’t waste questions on me.”

“Oh, but I’ve got so many good ones, c’mon,” Jon pestered. His eyes were darker than they had been. “I’d love some insight.”

Ryan glowered at Jon and opened his mouth to force out another denial of the request when a voice was pouring into the room, sultry and enticing, from the stage and Ryan swiveled on his stool to see Brendon with his hands on the microphone. 

If Ryan didn’t know him, he might have thought the smile Brendon suited was real. 

“Hey folks,” Brendon said with that fake smile on his face that made Ryan’s heart hurt in his chest. “My name’s Brendon Urie—as I’m sure most of you are aware—and uh… and I’m gonna sing for you all tonight. I’d like to apologize for the delay. You know how life can be. Distracting. Thank you for having me.”

Brendon shot Eric a look which Ryan assumed meant ‘go’ and Eric slammed his fingers down on the keys. The guy was talented. Really, really talented. But when Brendon began singing, there was no way anyone could give a shit what Eric was doing. All one could focus on was Brendon. 

Ryan knew the song. It had come out in ‘43 and when everyone was camping out near Normandy. One of the boys had picked it up on the radio. Everyone had gathered around to listen. Ryan sat there on a barstool in a gay bar, awed as Brendon’s voice filled the air. 

Ryan had stolen Mike Naran’s baby bible that day. 

Brendon’s sound was as smooth as a voice could be. Smooth like molasses or dripping honey, thick and sweet, and Ryan bet someone like him would choke on a voice like that. 

‘Paper Doll’ was the song. And Ryan had never heard it sung so well before. Brendon up there with his hands on either side of the microphone, his eyes closed. Even with the backwards sweater and the messy hair, he glowed. A ray of light on that stage. A star. 

“Holy cow,” Ryan said quietly, mouth falling open as he listened to Brendon’s voice fill the air. Serene.

It was one thing listening to Brendon sing acapella on the couch while he laughed or as they marched along on a bad day or on a hill next to a town called Nancy the night they found out they were going home. It was a whole other thing to hear him on a stage with the crackle of a microphone and the thrill of piano accompanying him. A whole other thing. 

Ryan could hear that voice on the radio; it was good enough. Better than Sinatra. Screw Sinatra. 

He thought about Brendon saying he liked the song. Thought about him trying to read more into it than he needed to. Normandy felt like a lifetime ago. A whole other life lived. Felt like Ryan was a different person then that day in Normandy. A different person in war. Brendon and he both had been. Who was Ryan now? Who was he without his baby bible and his uniform? Who was Brendon Urie without his cut-up sandals or his dead man rings or blood in his hair? Didn’t seem like they knew. But maybe they could help each other figure it out. 

“I know,” Jon Walker said from the other side of the bar. “The kid can sing.”

Ryan nodded numbly, not breaking his stare from Brendon on the stage—the place he belonged—with his eyes closed and head swayed to the side, singing. How did he look so comfortable up there? In his element. That was where he was meant to be; there was no doubt about it. 

“ _I'll tell you, boys, it's tough to be alone / And it's tough to love a doll that's not your own / I'm through with all of them / I'll never fall again / Say, boy, whatcha gonna do_ ,” Brendon sang and, the way he sang it, it sounded like he lost something. He opened his black eyes, evil eyes, and caught Ryan’s gaze across the bar. Smiled a real smile at him. 

Like he had something to lose. 

“ _I'm gonna buy a paper doll that I can call my own / A doll that other fellows cannot steal / And then the flirty, flirty guys with their flirty, flirty eyes / Will have to flirt with dollies that are real_.”

Brendon was the one with flirty eyes. Round and black and how was Ryan expected to look anywhere else when Brendon was standing up there in his state of disarray with that honey-drenched voice? When Ryan knew he was the one responsible for the disheveled appearance. How was he supposed to think of anything else?

Jon Walker had taken to drinking Ryan’s untouched Tom Collins himself, sipping aimlessly as he watched Brendon sing ‘Paper Doll’. There was nowhere else worth looking and even Jon Walker knew it. 

“He’s a pretty one too,” Jon declared and Ryan had to turn around at that, alarmed that Jon would say such a thing. Would admit to finding another man attractive. And he didn’t even tack on anything at the end. No ‘pretty for a _fella_ , anyway’. Just ‘pretty fella too’ and that was the end. Ryan didn’t know how he was meant to feel about that. 

He only narrowed his eyes and said, “Yeah. He is.”

“Must have you giddy,” Jon hummed out over the sound of Brendon’s singing with a smile. Like it was the punchline to a joke Ryan should have already heard before. “Havin’ a boy that pretty at your beck and call.”

“He’s not at my—”

“Bet if you asked him right here, right now he’d suck your cock beneath the bar,” Jon said and there was no shame when the words were spoken out loud. “Doesn’t matter how many people were around; he’d do it for you. Could snap your fingers and he’d crawl to you on all fours.”

“Now you listen here, Jon Walker, you piece of—” Ryan snarled, his blood bubbling up in his veins. 

“No, you listen,” Jon demanded, voice raising, and Ryan shut his mouth, cutting off whatever insult he was planning on making. Whatever fight he was planning to start. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Ryan only bared his teeth. 

“I’ll pretend you answered that without hesitating.” Jon took a drink of Ryan’s Tom Collins. “You can’t stroll in here, looking the way you do, and expect me not to draw my own conclusions. I know you fucked the kid raw.”

“You don’t know jackshit, Jon Walker,” Ryan spat. 

Jon scoffed. “You trying to tell me you didn’t fuck his ass?”

Did he answer the question? That felt extremely inappropriate and Brendon probably wouldn’t like him so much for that. God, it felt like he was talking to Spencer when he was seventeen all over again. Being laughed at for being a virgin.

Did he deny it? That might be a stupid idea. Jon already knew. Ryan couldn’t pretend he didn’t. Jon knew. Denying it wasn’t an option. 

Or did he tell Jon it really wasn’t any of his goddamn business and that he should piss off and bother someone else or maybe just punch him in the face? That would probably make the most sense with the options provided. 

Ryan balled his hands into fists beneath the bar. 

“Well?” Jon snapped. “I’m waiting.”

Ryan dug his fingernails into his palms. He was going to punch him. Or kill him. He might just kill him. 

“Ryan!” A new option came from the side of the bar and Ryan raised his head in alarm to see a young woman come strolling toward him, waving her hand in greeting. There was a smile plastered on her face and Ryan forced his hands to relax in his lap. 

_Oh, thank God_. A whole new option to pick.

Ryan was willing to put serious money on it. If someone hadn’t come by in that moment, he might have punched Jon Walker full on the mouth. Knocked him out, he was so angry. Might have just killed him. 

“Hi. Ryan, hey,” Sarah gushed as she placed herself next to the bar, standing beside him with one hand on the table and the other on her hip. She started talking instantly, wasting no more time than needed. “I’m so happy you’re here; I thought I’d never find you again.”

“Hi, Sarah. I—” Ryan paused. “Were you _trying_ to find me?”

“Hi, I’m here too,” Jon stressed, waving a hand at Sarah which she promptly ignored. Ryan considered punching him again.

“Well yeah.” She stuffed herself into the seat next to Ryan; a bit too close for his liking but he didn’t complain. He would rather talk to her than Jon Walker. “I mean, I just felt so God-awful about what happened last night, y’know? I was so worried that I messed up big time with all that. I really… I didn’t know that you didn’t know, y’know?”

“I know,” Ryan answered warily, staring at the woman next to him who was staring back at him with wide blue eyes. Shimmering. He shook his head, stressing, “It’s fine, really it is, Sarah. It all worked out fine in the end.”

“So I didn’t mess anything up with you and Brendon?” She asked hopefully. 

Jon hacked out vomit sounding laugh. He laughed the same way Dan Pawlovich had. “Believe me, doll, you didn’t mess _anything_ up.” 

Ryan sent him a snarl, a threat that probably wasn’t very threatening, before he focused back in on Sarah. She hadn’t so much as looked at Jon since she sat down. He smiled faintly at her and said, “It worked out alright.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that.” She grinned back in reply. “So? How’ve you been then in the last 24 hours? You and Brendon are doing good with one another; even though he’s queer?”

“They’re doin’ more than alright,” Jon mumbled, his words partially swallowed by Ryan’s Tom Collins.

“Hey, Mr. Walker,” Sarah said, finally swiveling on her stool to face him. There was irritation in her face. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a Sidecar in here?”

“Ask nicely,” Jon replied, shocked she was giving him the time of day. Ryan was equally as surprised. 

“Okay.” Sarah fixed him with her best smile, dazzling and white, batting her eyelashes over shimmering blue eyes. “Could I get a Sidecar, Mr. Walker, please?”

Jon blinked at her a second before he nodded. As he turned around to get a cocktail glass, Ryan heard him mutter, “Fucking marriage.”

“What brings you to The Church, Ryan?” Sarah asked. “Here to watch Brendon?”

“Yes,” he answered and sent a look at Brendon up on stage, having changed the song and doing a damn good job with the new one too. It never failed to astound Ryan how talented that man was. Brendon seemed more relaxed, that honey voice filling the entire place up, everyone nodding and listening along, stuffing their ears full of that sound.

“Wow,” Sarah said, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re one Hell of a good man, Ryan Ross.” 

Ryan looked at her in surprise. “Sorry?”

“You don’t even care that he’s queer?” Sarah asked. “Hell, I’ll be honest with you, I thought you might kill him. Said all that stuff about being in war, and I mean… We know what they do to people like us in war. Shoot you out right there. See you loving on another man and bam, you’re down for the count. Hot damn. I didn’t even… You’re a good man, Ryan. World doesn’t have enough men like you.”

Ryan’s heart was successfully balanced in his lungs, making it hard to breathe while Sarah was looking at him. 

A good man. Was he a good man? He didn’t know for sure. He always told himself that he closed his eyes when he pulled the trigger so that had to mean that he was good. Hadn’t directly killed a man. But Eric Ronick had pointed it out. Not looking at the bullet didn’t make it any less his. Would a good man shoot someone else? Would a good man take someone’s home away? Like Ryan was doing to Dallon. Stealing Brendon, his home, right from under Dallon’s nose. Would a good man do that? How good of a man could Ryan Ross really be?

But Ryan settled for a whispered ‘thank you’ and kept his eyes on his home on a stage. Brendon breathing into a microphone with his eyes closed and a smile on his face. Brendon was a decent man. Maybe not good. Can’t kill a man in France and still be good. But he was better than most. And Ryan loved him. He doubted he would love Brendon if he were a truly good man. Good men were hard to find and harder to love. 

“Your sidecar, Ms. Orzechowski,” Jon uttered from behind Ryan, passing a cocktail over to Sarah across the bar who didn’t say ‘thank you’ when she took it from him. Jon glared at the side of her head and then pushed Ryan’s half drained Tom Collins to him. 

Ryan glanced between him and the drink. “Uh… You’ve drunk half of this, Jon.”

“It’s on the house; take it goddammit, I ain’t making a new one.”

Ryan carefully plucked the glass from the table and held it in both hands. He didn’t take a sip of it as he watched the stage. Talked aimlessly with Sarah for some time, nothing very notable. The weather and this and that. She asked about France once and he ignored her when she did. 

He found out, after two Sidecars, that Sarah was interested in getting back together with the girl she had mentioned Nicole. 

“Have you seen her?” Sarah asked Ryan, a slur to her words. “Got these real nice eyes, soft hair and that _voice_. That voice! It’d be a sin not to worship that girl.”

“No,” Jon corrected. “The way you want to worship her _is_ the sin.”

“No one asked you, Jon Walker, you shit,” Sarah snapped and Ryan laughed, pleased that Jon was being told off. He had settled his Tom Collins behind him and had no intention of picking it up again. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it before.”

“Thought about what?” Jon asked and he retrieved Ryan’s Tom Collins, although he didn’t drink from it. 

“ _Sinning_ ,” Sarah hissed with a leering smile. 

“I don’t think about fucking men, if that’s what you’re asking,” Jon bit back. “I go to Church for God’s sake.”

“A lot of us people do,” Sarah replied matter of factly. “I go to church every Sunday. Doesn’t make me like Nicole any less. Can’t pray the gay away, sir.”

Ryan smiled at her. He thought about Mormon raised Brendon Urie. _Pray the gay away_. Did Brendon’s family do that to him? Is that why he didn’t speak with them anymore?

“You can try,” Jon muttered. “Besides, this thing with Nicole’s gone anyhow. She's gone.”

“No she ain’t,” Sarah shot back. “That girl loved me. I swear she did. I bet she still does. Know I do. You gotta go for it, I say. And the next night she’s here, I’m going for it. I’m gonna get that girl back on me if I have to fight someone for her.”

“Isn’t Nicole married?” Ryan asked, because he had picked that up through the long winding conversation Sarah had led him through. And—even if you were gay—marriage was a sacred thing. A stupid thing, yes. But that didn’t make it any less sacred. It was a thing supposed to be shared by two people that loved one another. That wanted to share their lives together. Ryan wondered if Nicole loved her husband. 

“Yeah, so?” Sarah asked. “Jon’s married too; doesn’t stop him from fooling around.”

“Aye!” Jon barked. “I don’t cheat on my wife!”

“Sure you don’t.” Sarah raised her brows towards Ryan, insinuating that she didn’t believe a word Jon Walker said. No one did. Ryan didn’t know if he believed Jon. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. He sort of hated Jon Walker. 

“I _don’t_ ,” Jon insisted. There was a hint of desperation to his voice. 

“We believe you, Jon,” Ryan said even though he didn’t really. Sarah nodded dumbly even though she didn’t either. However, it seemed to have appeased Jon for the time being and he settled back into leaning against the bar.

“But, personally, I don’t think it matters too much,” Sarah said after a moment. “Marriage and whatnot. If I want the girl, I’m gonna damn well get the girl.”

Ryan laughed. 

“I’m sure Ryro here feels the same way about that,” Jon told her. “Y’know. Ignoring the partner a person currently has just to make yourself happy. Selfishness and 'whatnot'. Destroying other people to protect yourself. I’m sure Ryro feels the _exact_ same. On a side note, you seen Dally around any? Hate to think he’s still out scouring the town for B out there all by his lonesome in the cold. Just… searching high and low for _his_ boy.”

Ryan’s fist clenched beneath the table. Screw Jon Walker. Fucking screw Jon goddamn Walker. What did he know? If Ryan wanted the boy, he was damn well going to get the boy. It wasn’t any of his goddamn business. And Ryan wanted Brendon. More than he had ever wanted anything in his entire fucking life and he wasn’t going to let one crazy blue eyed asshole get in his way. Jon wouldn’t understand something like that. 

“I think I saw him,” Sarah spoke up, tapping the side of her cocktail glass. “Maybe when I first came in. You mean Dallon, don’t you?”

“You know Dally?” Jon asked.

“I used to be a regular,” Sarah replied. “I know everyone.”

Jon snickered and shook his head. He chose to take a sip of the Tom Collins. “He’s here then, at the bar? You sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Sarah answered. 

Ryan didn’t know if he wanted her to be right or not. He wanted Brendon to tell Dallon. Wanted to have Brendon to himself without worrying about Dallon Weekes and his crazy blue eyes. But he wasn’t in any sort of hurry to hurt Dallon. Dallon didn’t deserve that. No one deserved that. 

“Good guy, Dally,” Jon said, directed at Ryan and he knew what Jon was trying to say. _Dallon is a good man and you aren’t. What you’re doing isn’t good. You’re a bad man, Ryan Ross. A bad, bad man._

“Eric said that to me last night,” Ryan replied, holding Jon in his gaze. 

“He’s a smart fella, Eric,” Jon stated. And Eric was. Creepy smart. 

“Speaking of Eric.” Sarah pointed loosely at the front of the room where Eric had removed himself from the piano and was collecting a guitar from the side of the stage. 

Brendon was standing there, unblinking as he watched Eric bring the guitar over and bend a microphone to hear it. He was clasping the stand tightly with both hands and smiling. 

“I didn’t know Eric could play guitar,” Sarah said. 

“Cello too,” Jon added from behind her. There was something soft about his voice, a sort of sympathy that Ryan didn’t know Jon Walker’s voice could have. “And a mean tambourine and violin on a good day. Man can do it all.”

“Can’t sing,” Sarah replied bluntly. 

“That’s what we’ve got Brendon for,” Jon told her. 

Ryan nodded his head in agreement. That was what Brendon Urie for. To sing. He was made for it. Jon had made a good choice hiring him. The only good thing Jon Walker had ever done was hire Brendon. Eric and he played off one another well up there on the stage. The crowd looked like they knew it too. 

“Hey there, everyone,” Eric said from the stage, bending over to get his mouth next to the microphone. A bit too close and his voice came out with a boom of static that had Ryan cringing. “We’re mixing it up tonight for the finale, if you’ll have us. Our very own Brendon Urie here has written a song. And I thought it’d be fun to play it for you all. How’s that sound?”

Muted cheers came from the crowd, some of them definitely more drunk than others. How long had Brendon been singing for? It felt like it was only a couple of minutes ago that he climbed on the stage but it must have been hours. Sweat was dripping down Brendon’s face and he was panting. He was already done with his set?

Jon Walker and Sarah Orzechowski had talked too much. Too much about marriage and church and being gay and whatnot and Ryan was confused on what exactly he was supposed to have listened to of that whole conversation. Dallon. That’s what he needed to remember. Dallon was at the bar. 

Holy Hell, Dallon was at the bar. 

Ryan took a look around and realized the crowd had dispersed significantly from when he had first arrived. Still a big enough crowd to sing to, twenty-five or so people. But the night was almost over. It was probably a little after one or so in the morning. Dallon Weekes wasn’t anywhere to be seen. 

“And it’s called…” Eric looked up at Brendon. “Urie, if you will?”

Brendon smiled at him and said into the microphone, “Thanks, Eric. It’s called ‘I Have Friends in Holy Spaces’. I’d say sing along but I don’t think any of you can.”

The crowd laughed and Ryan grinned. 

“‘I Have Friends in Holy Spaces’,” Eric repeated, nodding. “Any… reasons for that name?”

“None I’m willing to tell,” Brendon said through a smirk and the crowd laughed again. 

Brendon wiped moisture from his forehead with the back of his hand. Ryan was hoping that the sweat was making it less obvious what they’d done. Sweat upon sweat so a person couldn’t tell what was from singing and what was from Ryan’s body heat. 

If Dallon was in the audience, Ryan hoped he didn’t know. 

Although Eric seemed disappointed he didn’t get a proper answer, he didn’t let it show for more than a second before he was back to his excitable self, strumming his guitar. He looked at Brendon and mouthed a simple ‘one, two, three, four’ and hit his instrument. Straight into the song with a passion. 

“ _You remind me of a former love that I once knewAnd you carry a little speech with you._ ”

The song sounded a lot better out loud than it did on paper. Much better coming from Brendon’s full lips into the gay bar air than Dallon’s fancy handwriting on crisp, clean paper. Ryan listened to Brendon sing, perfect and meaningful. He bobbed his head on his shoulders as he performed the song, laughing to himself as he did so. Like he found something about the whole situation funny. 

Ryan chuckled in harmony from his barstool. 

“Hot damn,” Sarah said from behind him, watching Brendon sing with wide eyes. “He wrote that? I didn’t know he could write.”

“It’s not that good,” Jon grumbled. And he was right. It wasn’t incredible. It wasn’t the best song Ryan had heard by any stretch but Brendon was laughing and smiling that dazzling smile of his that had one of his eyes squinting more than the other and he looked like he was having the time of his life. Every now and then his eyes would shoot up and catch Ryan’s and he would smile a little wider. 

How was that not good? It was the best thing in the world. 

Or it _was_. It was the best thing until Ryan’s eyes wandered to the side of the room—away from Brendon—and caught sight of the figure next to the stairway. The figure dressed in a checkered shirt and slacks, smiling his ass off. There he was, Dallon Weekes. And there was pride in his eyes. So, so much love in those crazy blue eyes. 

Ryan’s stomach churned as if the world had flipped upside down and he hadn’t had anything to hold onto. Like he had been ripped from the ceiling and thrown onto the floor, all the breath knocked from his lungs. He felt uncomfortable in his skin. Like he should be able to shed it for a new coat. 

Dallon didn’t seem perturbed at all, unaware of the turmoil that was wreaking havoc on Ryan’s insides. He was simply standing there with his arms hugging himself around the middle and watching Brendon sing on stage. Watching Brendon Urie like there was no one else in the world to watch but him. Dallon Weekes was staring as though he loved him.

Ryan felt sick. 

He was a bad man. He was a bad, bad man. 

“ _I'm not complaining that it's raining, I'm just saying that I’d like it a lot / More than you think, if the sun would come out and sing with me_ ,” Brendon went on to another verse and when he did, his eyes found Ryan once more. He didn’t even know Dallon was there. Didn’t have a clue. He only looked at Ryan and he had to see how sick Ryan looked. He had to. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Ryan saw Dallon follow Brendon’s gaze to him. Straight there and Dallon paused. His blue eyes fell on Ryan, all one brilliant moment of association and he stopped, took a few slow blinks like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. 

What he was seeing was loose suspenders, rumpled hair, sloppily put on pants and guilt. He was seeing a bad man sitting on a barstool, crawling inside his own skin. 

Ryan was staring back at him. He didn’t know he was supposed to wave or not. Smile or tilt his head. Something, anything. He couldn’t just keep sitting there, gazing back at Dallon with a mortified expression. But he did. Because he didn’t know what else there was to do. 

Dallon frowned, his brow furrowing, and then he looked from Ryan again to Brendon on the stage. And those crazy blue eyes widened. It all happened so quickly, the realization that hit Dallon. One fluid motion of seeing Brendon, seeing Ryan, hearing the song and seeing the way Brendon looked at Ryan across the room. And Dallon was the last to know but he knew. He had to know. 

Dallon cast a look back at Ryan. His blue eyes were hurt; there was no doubt about it. Pain. Dallon didn’t want to look hurt, didn’t want Ryan to know the way his heart was convulsing in his chest but Ryan could see it even across the room. 

Ryan considered fleeing the scene without another word. Running like he always did. 

“Would you look at that,” Jon Walker purred, far too pleased for the situation at hand. “Dally Weekes; man of the hour. Wonder what he’s up to these days.”

Ryan’s throat felt clogged, filled up with concrete that was hardening his vocal cords into place. 

“ _You remind me of a few of my famous friends / Well, that all depends what you qualify as friends_ ,” Brendon finished but the sound was distant, nothing more than honey filled static in Ryan’s head, sticking his thoughts together until they didn’t make sense anymore. 

“Thank you so much, everyone,” Eric said into the microphone. “That’s it from us. I’ll play you some piano on your way out.”

The crowd began to disperse. None of them knew Brendon wrote that song about Ryan. No one knew Jon Walker was drunk and that Sarah Orzechowski was planning on seducing Nicole even though she was married. No one knew Brendon and Ryan had sex. And no one knew Dallon Weekes just had his heart broken without anyone needing to say a word. No one knew and no one cared. 

“Hey,” Sarah said as she jumped from the barstool beside him. Ryan had nearly forgotten she was there. “It was a real pleasure talking to you tonight, Ryan. Would love to do it again sometime.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” he said with a shake of his head, prying his eyes from Dallon’s across the room. He was finding it hard to speak. “It was nice, Sarah. I’ll see you around. I hope everything with Nicole works itself out.” 

“Oh, it will.” Sarah nodded, sure of herself. “Believe me; it will. Fight for it, Ryan. All I gotta tell you. Fight for that shit.”

Sarah smiled at him as she took the final sip of her Sidecar. Plucked the orange from the rim of the glass and waved to him as she exited, popping the fruit into her mouth. Ryan watched her go, his heart pounding. People were flooding out of The Church in packs of two or three and Ryan glanced back at the stairway. 

Dallon had vanished. 

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to see how this goes,” Jon’s voice piped up. 

“Excited?” Ryan turned to him, fearful. “Excited to see what?”

Jon sneered. “C’mon. You know.”

_I’m excited for you and Dallon to try killing one another. Excited to see which one of you Brendon chooses_. Except Ryan had already been chosen. He had, hadn’t he? Brendon was going to tell Dallon that he loved Ryan. That’s what was going to transpire. 

Brendon would admit to having sex with Ryan and Dallon would be heartbroken and either yell or cry and then he’d leave and Brendon and Ryan would… They would what? That was about as far as the plan went. Then Ryan would leave Brendon behind and go to Las Vegas to his father’s funeral because his father decided to die at the worst possible time. No. No. Ryan would figure something else out. Eventually. 

Ryan shook his head. “You’re a bastard, Jon Walker. I hope you know that.”

“I pride myself on it.”

Ryan turned back to the front of the room. Eric and Brendon had disappeared from the stage. Ryan’s heart was beating faster every second. 

What sort of man was Dallon Weekes? He was claimed to be a good one. Eric thought so and so did Jon and everyone else in the world. How mad would a good man be when he found out he had been lied to? He wouldn’t try to fight Ryan, would he? Ryan wouldn’t be the one that Dallon was angry at, right? Brendon was the one who lied to him.

Ryan could not blame Brendon. He wasn’t going to blame Brendon. Brendon loved Dallon and it wasn’t his fault. Ryan kissed him first. It was Ryan’s fault. Definitely. 100% it was Ryan’s fault. If Dallon should be mad at anyone, it was him. 

Ryan stepped from the barstool without another word to Jon Walker and made his way to the stage where he knew Brendon was, leaving a drunk man alone at the bar. And, sure enough, there he was. There Brendon Urie was, standing next to the stage with Eric bombarding him with questions in a lowered hiss. Ryan only made out a couple as he drew nearer. 

“Did you even change your clothes!” Eric was asking. “At least put on some cologne, man! Be smart about it! You _smell_ like infidelity!”

“Eric,” Brendon was saying back over and over. “Eric, I know. I get it. I’m a gink, I know.”

He glanced to the side in time to see Ryan and he closed his mouth, watching Ryan draw nearer. His eyes roamed Ryan up and down briefly. 

Eric only got the first words of his next phrase out before he too saw Ryan coming and he snapped his mouth closed, instantly forming his lips into a wide smile. 

“Ryan, hi,” Eric greeted as if he hadn’t just been yelling at Brendon about Ryan’s bad influence like he was a mother. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too, Eric,” Ryan returned. It was nice to see Eric. Eric was a good guy.

“Having a good night?” Eric asked. “You had a fairly fantastic morning by the looks of it.”

He gestured between Ryan and Brendon with a hand and Brendon made a sound of protest, hitting Eric in the shoulder. Eric laughed to himself and took a step back. It was nice he could joke about it. Ryan was finding it hard to see anything about the situation as comical. 

“Sorry,” he apologized, smiling too wide for his own face. “But you did a piss poor job of covering it up.”

“Didn’t have time,” Brendon grunted. His face was trying to make the turn to a smile but his eyes were too serious to manage it, too worried. 

“Didn’t have ti—Okay I have a few questions,” Eric said. 

“Ask them,” Brendon told him. Ryan opened his mouth to protest, wanting to tell Brendon that maybe questions weren’t the best choice because Dallon Weekes was somewhere around and he knew. Dallon _knew_. 

Eric was flashing his eyes back and forth between Ryan and Brendon, practically vibrating. His mouth opened and closed and the words came out so jumbled that Ryan wondered if the man was even speaking English. “I am so—Finally, first of all—Wow. I can’t believe that you two—Who was the first one to—Did you kiss him or did he—For how long did—Which one of you was—Does he know that you two—Oh my God—”

“Eric,” Brendon said and there was a small chuckle beneath his words. At least he could find the humor. At least Brendon could smile. “One at a time.”

Eric took a deep breath and he looked at Brendon with big eyes, chest heaving, “Have you talked to Dallon yet?”

Brendon’s smile fell within a moment as the world came back into focus, the realization seeming to hit him that he was supposed to talk with Dallon and he opened his mouth to reply but before he could, another voice was entering the conversation. 

“No,” Dallon Weekes’s voice came from behind them. “He hasn’t.” 

Brendon froze. A man made of stone as he pivoted to look at Dallon. The guilt was written in his eyes, all over his face. Ryan had never seen a man look so guilty in all his life. And there was sadness there too. Hurt for himself. Pity for Dallon. Guilt. God, so much guilt. 

And then there was Dallon, made of stone in a whole other way. A stone expression with no emotion in his face, arms folded over his chest. For a taller man, he slouched to make himself appear smaller. His blue eyes flashed. 

Eric’s excitement dissipated into thin air and Ryan held his breath, concrete lungs hardening.

“Hi, Dal,” Brendon greeted in a small voice. Regretful. Apologetic. 

“Hi,” Dallon replied. Betrayal. Sorrow. “Think we could have a word?”

Dallon looked from Eric, whose eyes had never been bigger, and then to Ryan. There was emotion when he looked at Ryan. And it was hatred. There was nothing else it could have been. Pure, unfiltered _hatred_. And Ryan deserved it; of course he deserved it. 

“Dallon—” Ryan started to say and Dallon bared his teeth. How dare Ryan speak to him. How dare he think he had the right. Ryan knew it was a mistake he opened his idiotic mouth. He wished he could take it back. It wasn’t his place to speak.

“Alone,” Dallon snarled. 

Eric and Ryan both cringed back. Ryan didn’t know what to say and he didn’t get the chance as he felt Eric’s hand curl around his forearm. The grip was tighter than Brendon’s had been, tugging at Ryan to move.

“Yeah,” Eric agreed hurriedly. “Of course you can. Ryan and I will be—We’ll go upstairs. Of course we will.”

Ryan dug his heels into the ground to keep Eric from pulling him along. He gave Brendon a questioning look. He had to know. Was it alright for him to leave? Should he? Dallon didn’t seem to be in a very nice mood. Was it safe to leave Brendon alone with him?

“Yeah,” Brendon said, catching Ryan’s gaze. He swallowed and tilted his head back to Dallon. “Alone would be good.”

And Ryan let his body turn limp as he let himself be pulled away by Eric’s taut grip. He made sure not to look back at Dallon and Brendon as he was shoved along. Eric got Ryan to the stairs, waving a hand at Jon standing behind the bar to follow them. Jon didn’t protest as he wandered over. Only followed them up the stairs. 

Jon was carrying an empty glass with him and his eyes were bored. He cast a glance over his shoulder at the stairs. He asked, “Why are we leaving?”

“Because Dallon and Brendon are about to have a lover’s quarrel and we were asked politely to leave,” Eric explained, sounding a bit too eager for the situation at hand. 

“A quarrel?” Ryan repeated, alarmed. A fight? Brendon and Dallon were going to fight?

“Nothing physical,” Eric assured as they reached the door. He hadn’t let go of Ryan’s arm, still just as firm. Eric had a good grip; Ryan doubted he would be able to get away if he tried. “Don’t worry.” 

“If Dally touches the kid, I’ll kill him,” Jon mumbled, dumping his empty glass upside down, as they entered into the Walk of Shame.

Ryan only had a moment to wonder if he had heard that right. Jon Walker, defend Brendon Urie? That didn’t sound right. Perhaps Ryan had heard him wrong. 

Eric shut the door behind him and instantly sank down in front of it, placing himself on the floor with his legs crossed and his back pressed to the wall. 

Jon strolled over to the bar without so much as a word and Ryan found himself in the middle of the room, blinking in confusion. 

That happened so quickly. Had that been real? What was he supposed to do? Brendon and Dallon were alone downstairs in The Church and Dallon was pissed and Brendon smelled like infidelity. What the hell was Ryan supposed to be doing? Just let them battle it out down there? He needed to do something. He needed to help Brendon. He needed to be there with him. 

He turned in a circle to look at Jon and Eric. They didn’t seem panicked or worried in the slightest. Jon was making himself yet another drink and Eric was simply sitting on the floor, elbows balanced on his knees. He was humming Brendon’s song beneath his breath and his eyelids dropped halfway. He appeared tired. 

“You know how to play Rummy?” Eric asked suddenly, directed at Ryan. 

Ryan stared. “Do I know how to what?”

“Play Rummy,” Eric elaborated, voice easy. “It’s a card game. Lots of fun, good bonding experience.”

“Uh…” Ryan shook his head. “I might.”

“Jonathan,” Eric called to the other side of the empty room where Jon was shuffling around the bar. “Get your cards, will you? We’re gonna play Rummy.”

Jon Walker, brandy bottle in hand walked over to them with a deck of cards clenched in the other. Eric scooted closer to the center of the room. It was eerily quiet as Jon sat down next to him, throwing the deck onto the floor so the cards spilled across the wood.

“Don’t be messy,” Eric berated, pulling the cards to his lap to shuffle them. 

Ryan couldn’t wrap his mind on what was happening. 

“Well?” Eric asked, peering up at Ryan. “You gonna play or not?”

“I—” Ryan glanced at the door. “Shouldn’t we—I need to be down there.”

“What?” Jon asked, perturbed. “No, you don’t. What the hell are you gonna do?”

Ryan opened his mouth to argue. 

“You gonna stand there and listen to them yell at one another? You’ll only make it worse. You weren’t invited to that party, so you don’t get to watch, alright? A damn shame, sure—I wanted to see that shit go down; been looking forward to it since your dumb ass showed up—but we don’t get to see it. So we sit and we wait until they’re done.”

“And we play Rummy in the meantime,” Eric added. He sent Ryan a childish smile.

Ryan blinked. 

“Ryro,” Jon said with a roll of his eyes. Ryan hated how even his voice was. How level headed coming from Jon Walker, the man with a full bottle of Brandy at his side. “There’s nothing you, or either of us, can do right now except listen through the walls. If you’re that fucking desperate, go put your ear on the damn door. But that ain’t your fucking buissness. You’ll go crazy if you keep standing up like that. I don’t want you pacing a goddamn hole in my goddamn floor. So sit your ass down, Ryro, before you have a fucking break down.”

The man had a point, as much as Ryan hated to admit it. 

There wasn’t anything Ryan was expected to do. There wasn’t anything he could do. And it wasn’t his business. Not explicitly. It was Brendon’s. Brendon should tell Dallon. And he had asked to do that alone. _Dallon_ was Brendon’s business. 

Ryan was the mistress; he had to keep reminding himself of that. Brendon wasn’t his. Brendon should be able to have time with Dallon to figure it all out. Time to let Dallon down in his own way. And then, no matter how Dallon reacted, Ryan would be there for Brendon after. That was his job. That was his business. Helping Brendon. 

So, in the meantime—

“Alright,” Ryan said and he placed himself on the musky floor. He took the deck from Eric’s hand. “I’ll deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading.


	32. Love is Not a Lifeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst Train. Choo choo bitch.

Brendon Urie had done a lot of stupid things in his lifetime. More than he could count, frankly. 

To start off though, he had kissed a boy on his couch when he was seventeen and his older brother, Mason, caught him in the act. And Brendon had been too stupid to lie. He was promiscuous in his young age, through his teenage years, and onward. Even in France—where options were limited—he was a bit of a whore. And he never grew close with his family; never tried to. 

He fled to Clearfield the first time the chance arose and lived in a shitty apartment with one friend to speak of, Dallon Weekes—who was a teacher and far too mature, with his slicked-back hair and suits, to be hanging around with a nineteen-year-old Brendon Urie. And, when he wasn't bothering Dallon, he was running around in bars and finding sexual release where he could. Any bathroom stall that wasn't as dirty as the others or an alley that presented itself as cozier than the rest. Anywhere he was willing to put his knees. 

Brendon never learned how to love anyone and he never figured out how to _be_ loved. Never even got a goddamned definition of what love was at all. 

Another stupid, irresponsible decision; Brendon enlisted when he was twenty-one and only called his mother to tell her. Was too much of a coward to even do it face to face. Too stupid to actually look her in the eyes when he told her he was planning to die. Hung up on her before she even had the proper chance to talk to him. Brendon stole dead man rings and had sex with four different men in France even though he knew he might be shot because of it. 

And, stupidly, he lived through it. He went to war with only one goal in mind—to die—and he was too stupid to even do that. He lived through France even though he didn’t want to. Was that a stupid thing to do? Living? Almost definitely. 

Then, when Brendon came back from Normandy and Metz and Nancy and all those little towns in between to Clearfield, his stupidity hit new levels. It started when he got drunk at a gay bar to sing. Started when he wrote a drunk note on a napkin and mailed it to Las Vegas. Stupid when he let Ryan Ross sleep in his bed and told himself nothing would come of it. Lied to everyone, but to himself the worst of all. He was stupid enough to let his best friend kiss him in a closet and tried to convince himself that he could love him. 

He could, most likely, love Dallon. If Ryan wasn’t in the picture and Dallon was all Brendon had, he would probably fall in love with Dallon. If all that was offered was secret kisses in gay bar closets and in Dallon's house. If that's all that was offered, that's all that could be received. So yeah. If that was it—if there wasn't anything else—Brendon could love Dallon. If he tried hard enough. Not that he would tell Dallon that. Say something along the lines of ‘sorry; missed your chance’. That would be too cruel. 

Brendon Urie had done his fair share of stupid things. More than enough. But this? Standing in a gay bar looking like sex with Dallon Weekes standing across from him, arms folded and eyes narrowed, in dead silence? That was the stupidest. 

Ryan and Eric had exited the room, Jon close behind, and it was only Dallon and Brendon left. Even the band was gone. A whole room fit for a crowd, and the only people left were two stressed-out queers with an argument to be had. And it would be an argument. This confrontation would not go well and Brendon knew that. Sadly, he knew it. 

Dallon was about a yard from him, never removing his eyes from Brendon, the heartbreaker blue pressed into thin slits. Brendon wondered how he could even see through his eyes slanted like that. Had to be giving him a headache.

Brendon couldn’t think of what to say. How best to start. Should he start with an apology? Was that a bad way to start? How many people started things with apologies and had them end well? Maybe Dallon wanted an apology. Maybe one 'sorry' and it could all be resolved. Brendon wished to God it was that simple. 

“Jon said you went looking for me,” Brendon’s mouth formed the words before his brain thought about them fully. It didn’t matter; he couldn’t take them back. He had spoken. Now it was only on Dallon to reply. 

“Don’t do that,” Dallon returned, scowling.

“Do what?” Brendon questioned.

“Try to carry on a conversation.” Dallon hunched his shoulders into his neck as if trying to fold in on himself. “Don’t humor me with formalities, Brendon.”

Brendon swallowed. “Okay. I won’t.”

He wished he had come up with a plan. Wished he had written out a speech and could read it off word for word. Wished he had any idea at all how to say what he needed to. What Dallon needed him to say. 

“Okay.” Dallon wiped a shaky hand over his mouth. “Okay. I’m gonna—Will you let me talk? For a minute, can you just listen to me?”

Brendon couldn’t think of anything to do other than nod. Simply nod and stand there in the middle of an empty gay bar feeling stupider than he ever had before. He could listen to Dallon. Perhaps Dallon could give him some insight on what he was supposed to say. He needed all the help he could get. 

“You remember when we first met?” Dallon interrogated, not actually expecting an answer, because of course Brendon remembered. Although, as if Brendon didn't know, Dallon carried on, “It was at a drugstore and I was buying pain pills because this asshole in my class wouldn’t stop making paper airplanes and throwing them at a girl in the back. Some moron kid who didn't care anything about my class, just wanted the girl in the back to pay attention to him. I swear, Brendon, I was ready to tear my head off.”

Brendon didn’t think it was appropriate to smile but he wanted to. His mouth quirked into a grimace instead. 

“And you?" Dallon pointed at Brendon trimly, straight and purposeful. "You were buying cigarettes. Lucky Strikes and the box was red and you shook it like it was a box of matches and you were ready to light something on fire.”

Brendon didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. Didn't know why that mattered. 

“And I—" Dallon looked down at himself, tugging at the bottom of his checkered shirt to inspect it. To make sure it was really on him. "I was wearing my favorite suit and my third favorite tie and my shoes were smudged because I hadn’t had them shined in too long because there hadn’t been enough time." 

Brendon looked him over as well. No suit now. Only checkered shirts and slacks and dry hair. 

As if knowing what Brendon was thinking, Dallon ruffled his tan hair with a hand. "And I was on my last tin of pomade and my hair looked like it was thinning and I’d never felt older in my entire goddamn life and my head was fucking killing me. Everything was fucking killing me, Brendon.” He took a soft breath. Some sort of epiphany. He pointed again but it was loosely, more timid. “And then there was you. There was _you_ , Brendon. Eighteen-years-old with the biggest smile I’d ever seen, standing there with your Lucky Strikes matchbox, and you were wearing your blue button-up and that black vest with a button missing.”

Brendon took a slow blink. He stayed frozen in place. His lips were starting to part in surprise that Dallon could remember such things. He subconsciously picked at the sweater he was wearing. The sweater he had forgotten to put an undershirt beneath and the fabric had his skin itching. 

“And you told me I looked young enough to be a student and for a split second I thought ‘hey, maybe I am’. And you invited me out back for a smoke; you remember that don’t you?" His blue eyes were becoming more round. "You remember taking a smoke, Brendon?”

Brendon nodded again numbly. 

“Good, good. I choked on the fumes and you said I acted like I'd never had a smoke before." Dallon let out a disdainful chuckle that Brendon couldn't even attempt to return. "I’ll let you know, it was the first time I’d smoked in a year and a half to the day. Used to be addicted to those things, like everyone else, and I quit because my voice was too scratchy when I talked. Couldn't talk too long so I swore them off. But then you offered me one and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that I could hardly breathe because you were the one offering me a cigarette and you were you and I swear, Brendon, I had never seen a boy so goddamn gorgeous in my entire life.”

Brendon’s heart made an indescribable jump in his chest. It wasn't flattery. It wasn't an emotion he could place. He wasn't happy Dallon thought he was gorgeous. Not in the slightest. If anything, the thought only made him mournful. 

“And then you invited me to Minx," Dallon added and Brendon wondered how long he would go on for. "And I thought to myself, oh. Oh, what a beautiful thing. I’ve got him tonight." 

Brendon couldn't help the look that crossed his features. Not disgust. Not disgust but that was the closest word. Distaste. 

Dallon didn't notice. Or if he did, he didn't care. 

"It didn’t matter that you were eighteen," he said. "And it didn't matter that you were running away from home or that you were alone. It mattered that you were gorgeous, and I was lonely; you understand that?" 

Distraught. 

"But then… then something insane happened." Dallon sounded genuinely surprised and his blue eyes had widened again but it was too big that time and he looked nothing but frantic. "I ended up liking you. Actually liking you. I legitimately enjoyed your company when we had a beer together. I liked how you laughed when you heard something funny and the way you hummed along to the songs on the radio even though you didn’t know them. I liked _you_ , Brendon you have to understand that. So I let you go. I let you go home and I gave you my number for the future. I didn’t think you’d ever use it. But then you did. You did. Couldn’t believe my goddamn luck.” 

Brendon tried to think of anything to say and all that came out was, "I liked you too."

“No.” Dallon's voice was venom and he raised a finger. “You’re not allowed to talk right now.”

Brendon reluctantly shut his mouth even though he had a million things he wanted to say. A million things he needed to and that were finally forming in his mind. Ways to ask Dallon to stop talking. _Stop talking; I don't like what you're saying_. 

“You came back to Clearfield and I was the first person you called and it was obvious how much you needed someone, Brendon." Dallon looked at him. How did he manage to look like he pitied Brendon? How could he pity Brendon? Brendon didn't need his pity. "You were falling apart, tearing open. And I thought _yes_. Brilliant, yes. I can save him. I can save him. And my purposes weren’t selfish and it wasn’t a need. I wasn’t trying to get into your pants anymore. I wanted you to…” He took a breath. “I wanted _you_ , goddammit, and that’s all I wanted.”

Brendon let his mouth fully open. He didn't like that. He didn't like that one bit. It wasn't on Dallon to _save_ him. How dare he think that. How dare he think he could save Brendon. 

“And when you asked me to teach you how to play piano, I wanted to kiss you," Dallon remarked and Brendon couldn't suppress the flinch his body made. "When you made up a melody and sang the same three words over and over again, I wanted to kiss you. When you’d show up at the university during my lunch break or my planning period; I didn’t even care that I had things to do. I’d set it aside. It didn’t matter. All I wanted was to be with you. And I thought to myself that I was going to... I thought I was going to do what I wanted. One day at the creek I was going to be a fucking man and I was going to kiss you. But then—" A new tone now. Anger. That was anger. "Then you always found a way to mention a _guy_. Some guy that had fucked you the night before and _Brendon_ —"

He broke off in a resentful scoff. He didn't pity Brendon anymore. No. Now he hated him. 

“They weren’t even people when you talked about them, Brendon. They were just hands and body heat and lips and that was it. There was nothing more to them. They didn't even deserve names." 

Brendon blinked at him. Thought about days at the creek when he had mentioned in passing the time he had the night prior. The stranger he had shared a moment with. What the man's cologne had smelled like. If he was wearing a wedding ring. If he cared enough to use Brendon's real name. Those weren't fond memories. Those weren't Brendon making bodies out of people. Those were people making a body out of him. How did Dallon twist things like that? 

"And I always told myself," Dallon said. "Always told myself that I was gonna be more to you than another bed to sleep in. I’m going to be more to you.”

Dallon took a heavy breath. He was refusing to let his eyes meet Brendon’s and focused on the dirty floor of The Church. 

“But I never was, even we would do stupid shit at the creek like skipping rocks or throwing leaves in and watching them float down. Making stupid wishes that nothing ever came of. Wishes like ‘let him kiss me; let him love me’. It was pointless. All along, it was. But I wanted to kiss you every time. Every time you smiled at me or laughed or mentioned some stupid guy that you did blow with 24 hours ago. Every _fucking_ time. Because I would always tell myself I would be more than that.”

Brendon bit his teeth together, clacking the enamel loudly. He thought about days at the creek when Dallon and he had rolled up their pants and dipped their feet in creeks and Dallon had laughed at him and asked him to play a game about wishes. Thought about how much he had loved Dallon them. How much Dallon mattered back in those days. Dallon was souring perfectly good memories. 

“Then you… you went and enlisted. Tell me honestly, was I just not good enough for you to stay around?” Dallon lamented, begging. “Was that it? Was that why you left? You got drunk on two beers, Brendon, and you ran. You didn’t even tell me about it. Didn't mention it as anything you planned on doing. You just did it. And when you were standing there, on the platform, I wanted to kiss you more than I’d ever wanted to kiss anyone in the world. And I would have. If we weren’t around the other people I would have. I would have but I didn’t and I regret it more than anything.”

Brendon stared on. He didn’t know if he was supposed to answer. Because how could Dallon think that? Dallon meant the world to Brendon. He meant everything and he always had. It wasn’t because Dallon wasn’t _good enough_. It was because Dallon was _too good_ for Brendon, didn’t he see that? Although, the more he talked, Brendon was beginning to think of things a little differently. 

“I didn’t water your plants,” Dallon went on, not even giving Brendon the chance to reply of he wanted to. That was probably for the best. Brendon didn't have many nice things to say. “And I didn’t dust for you or make sure no one broke in. I didn’t step foot in your apartment building for three years because I was worried that—”

Dallon choked off. Anguish. The anger was bleeding away. 

“I was worried that if I went in—if I changed it—something bad would happen. To you. And I know that was stupid—believe me, I know it was—but I was terrified. Terrified I wouldn’t get you back.”

Brendon’s mouth fell open and he took a step towards Dallon. He wanted to tell him that wasn't true. That wasn’t; a hundred times over it wasn’t. Dallon meant so much. When Brendon was nineteen years old and hadn't had anyone else he mattered; Dallon had been it. He had meant everything. 

“But then, Brendon. Then you came back. And fuck, the world spun again, I swear. And I loved you just the same if not more. Because I finally knew what it was like not to have you around. Fuck, I wanted you, Brendon. Fuck!” 

His voice was hard and he stamped a foot on the ground, some sort of physical action to dispel the pent up energy coming out of him. Brendon watched him in surprise as he did it. A child having a temper tantrum over losing a toy. 

“And I thought I had you.” Dallon squeezed his eyes shut. “For a split second, I thought I did.”

Brendon swallowed. Now that made him feel guilty. That made him hurt. 

“Now, Brendon, I’d just like to ask you, after all of that—" Dallon finally looked up. “How stupid am I, that I ever thought I had a chance?”

“Dallon,” Brendon let the words drool from his mouth like water through cracks. Slow and hesitant. Unsure where to go next. “Dallon, no. No, of course you’re not stupid. Dallon, you mean everything to me. _Everything_.”

“Clearly not,” Dallon snapped back. “You had sex with Ryan the first night he came here, didn’t you? The night I kissed you on the stairwell and I considered leaving town because I had just made that big a fool of myself in front of you. The night I thought I ruined everything. When he came out of your bathroom, soaked. You had sex with him, didn’t you?”

It was so accusatory, his tone, that Brendon stepped back, appalled with the words. He shook his head in disbelief. “No. No, I didn’t, Dallon; what do you—”

“But—" Dallon had to take a breath before he spoke. His eyes were fixed on Brendon. “He still fucked you.”

Brendon's body twitched. 

“You can’t deny that.” Dallon didn’t take his gaze away, boring into Brendon’s. Daring him to deny it. “He fucked you.”

Brendon couldn’t form the words; only nod his head. It was the truth. There wasn’t anything he could oppose, even if he wanted to. And he did want to. Somehow, someway, he wanted to. 

“Did you even—” Dallon cut himself off, turning his head to the side away from Brendon so he didn't have to look at him anymore. As though Brendon's appearance had been too much. “Did you even _try_ to hide it? Look at you. Fuck, Brendon; it’s written all over you. Do you really think so lowly of me that you thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

“What?” Brendon asked quickly, offended that Dallon could think something like that. Think that Brendon would do that to him. Go on behind his back and hide it away. If he was that bad of a man. “Of _course_ not. Dallon, how can you—I don’t think _lowly_ of you. I was going to tell you. I wanted to tell you.”

Dallon scoffed in the back of his throat. “Little late for that.”

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” Brendon explained hastily, and it was the truth. He hadn't wanted any of this to happen the way it did. “I wanted to tell you. That’s all I wanted. I just couldn't figure out how.”

“Well, tell me then,” Dallon spat. “Tell me he fucked you.”

Brendon reared back. “Dallon—”

“The same as you did at the creek edge with all those other guys.” Dallon’s blue eyes were as hysterical as his voice was growing. “Go ahead and tell me about his mouth, Brendon. His hands, and what he smelled like. Tell me how he felt inside you and how it was so good you begged for more. Fucking tell me about it.”

Brendon took a step back fully, horrified, away from Dallon and his shaky breath and frightening blue eyes. 

“C’mon, goddammit," Dallon screamed. "Fucking tell me!” 

Brendon cringed back as if he had been struck and instinctively his hands went up in defense. That yell had been louder than any gunshot from France. Hurt worse than a dog bite or a rock piece to the eyebrow. Hurt worse than Mike Naran’s bullet hole in the foot and Brendon’s blood was pumping in his ears too loudly to hear. 

Instantly, Dallon realized what he had done and he shifted back lightly although the fire didn’t leave his eyes. Only dulled to a flicker instead of a full flame. His jaw was clenched. 

Brendon snarled, the back of his eyes burning. The words spilled off his tongue, aggressive and with no reluctance. “Fuck you, Dallon. _Fuck_ you. You want me to talk to you so bad? Huh?”

Dallon stared at him, blue fire in his heartbreaker eyes. 

“I love him,” Brendon said and he arched his shoulders in a pathetic attempt at a shrug. There was fury rolling in his stomach. Pure fury. “If that’s what you want me to say. If you wanna know so fucking badly. I love him. And yeah, we fucked. Okay, Dallon? He fucked me. And it felt good and I liked it and he tasted like sugar. And fuck you, Dallon Weekes, because you don’t know anything. Not a motherfucking thing.”

Dallon flinched, pained. “I—”

“I didn’t want this to happen." Brendon stressed, panic filling his voice. "Do you think I envisioned this? I _planned_ to do this to you? To him? To _me_? If there was a way to avoid this, I would have done it. Okay? I didn’t know he would—I didn’t know that we were going to—” Brendon shook his head. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Dallon. I never planned to hurt you.”

“Then why would you kiss me in the first place? If you—" Dallon paused, as if he couldn’t say the word ‘love’ out loud, simply leaving a blank where it should have gone in the conversation. “If you… With him.”

“I told you,” Brendon replied, voice hard and unforgiving. “I didn’t _know_. This happened yesterday, Dallon; just yesterday. I swear it did. It wasn’t a scheme I had dreamed up and it wasn’t anything Ryan had been leaning towards either. It was when he found out about The Church. That was when it happened. Only yesterday.”

Dallon blinked at him in surprise. His voice was high. “You… you decided you loved him in a day? And you couldn’t love me in six years, but he came in for a _day_? One goddamn day and you decide you _love_ him?” 

“I’ve loved him since Normandy,” Brendon responded without hesitation. 

And it was the truth if he was being honest with himself. No more lies; not even to himself. He had loved Ryan Ross longer than he had even thought. Loved him since France. Since a day in 1943 when a song called ‘Paper Doll’ came on the radio and Ryan Ross took a baby bible that wasn’t his own and put it in his pack. That day, Brendon started to love him. And it had only gone downhill since. 

Dallon’s brows had angled up. He looked hurt. So, so hurt. “And he… He found out you were gay and he was alright with it so you kissed him? You just… You didn’t even care about me; you just kissed him?”

“That’s not true,” Brendon stressed. No matter how mad Dallon made him, he couldn't stand the pain that flickered in those blue eyes. “He kissed _me_.”

Dallon appeared bewildered instantly. “What? He’s straight. You said he has a girl in Vegas. Why-why the hell would he kiss you?”

Brendon wet his lips. It didn't sound like a good answer out loud. It sounded like a pipe dream but he said it anyway. Said, “He loves me.”

“Loves you?” Dallon asked in alarmed scorn. “He wasn’t gay until yesterday, Brendon. You can't believe that he—Wait, wait a second—” 

Dallon shook his head and waved a hand as if trying to clear his head. Clear the thoughts that haunted him. 

“Let me get this right,” he said shakily. “You tell him you’re gay and he-he just kisses you? He fucks you? You let him fuck you? After finding out you were gay for an hour, he decides to kiss you? After three goddamn years of nothing and girls and he decides he wants to fuck you? After one goddamn hour?”

Mosture was dripping onto Brendon’s sweater collar and, even without his undershirt, he felt too hot. Like someone had turned up the heat and was trying to cook him out. Make him sweat out all his lies. 

Dallon’s voice was suddenly sad. “Brendon, you can’t think this will end well.”

Brendon shifted from one foot to the other. “I—It will. It will after he goes to Vegas and settles it all with his dad and he—” 

“Vegas?” Dallon interrupted abruptly. “What the hell does any of this have to do with fucking Vegas?”

“His dad died,” Brendon replied, less sure of himself. “His dad died, and he has to go back. But when he comes back, we’ll figure it all out. I love him. You have to understand that, Dallon. He loves me.”

Dallon’s entire body slumped. There was something sorrowful about his eyes all of a sudden and when he spoke his voice was low, agrieved. “Brendon…”

Brendon didn’t like that tone. “What?”

“Brendon, you can’t really believe that,” Dallon said quietly. He had gone from pity to hate to sadness and now it was sorrow. “There’s no way. You’re so smart, Brendon; don’t tell me you believe that. Please.”

“W-what do you mean?” Brendon asked. There was a twist to his gut and the sweat was running down the back of his neck. 

“His dad _died_?” Dallon’s voice was dripping poisonous sarcasm. “Little convenient, don’t you think? He gets to fuck you and then his dad drops dead out of the blue and he has to pack up and leave you; leave all this shit behind like it doesn’t involve him? He gets a free chance—no strings attached—to elope by himself back to Vegas and leave you and me and everyone else behind. Wipe Clearfield off his boot like it’s a shit stain. All a bit too perfect for him, I think. A bit too fucking perfect.”

Brendon shook his head, squinting his eyes. “Wait, are you—You’re not trying to say he’s lying, are you?”

Ryan wasn’t lying. Ryan Ross was hardly capable of such a thing. But there was a pit to Brendon’s stomach that hadn’t been there before as he thought about it. It _was_ perfect. Ryan gets laid and then he gets to head off to Vegas, off to Z, and not have to worry about Brendon Urie anymore. He could leave if he wanted and never come back. Ryan didn’t have to come back. 

Brendon’s heart was hammering. 

Ryan wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. Brendon knew Ryan like the back of his hand, better than anyone else in the world. Ryan wouldn’t do that. Not to him. Ryan loved him. Like an idiot, Ryan loved him. And Dallon couldn’t take that away from him. 

“I’m saying, Brendon,” Dallon tried. “That you’re too smart to think it’s the truth.”

“Dallon you’re a selfish bastard,” Brendon spat without a pause. "You're a selfish fucking prick." 

"What?" Dallon asked, shocked. Hostile. "How the hell am I selfish?"

“You never wanted me," Brendon snapped. "Don’t pretend like you did. You wanted to _own_ me. All that shit like calling me ‘mine’ the first night we came to the bar and-and your fucking jealousy is obsessive. You’re fucking smothering me, don’t you get it? It never would have worked out, you understand that? _We_ never would have worked out.”

Dallon shook his head, never breaking eye contact with Brendon and he opened and closed his mouth, trying to find the words. Trying to think of the best way to tell Brendon he hated him. Hated Brendon and everything he had ever done and ever said because it wasn’t true. Brendon was the selfish one. 

“All those years by the creek edge and all that shit.” Brendon waved a hand across the bar's room. “I didn’t love you then. Not like that. I’ll say it. I didn't love you. Because I didn't need to. I didn't need any of that romance shit and I didn't want it. My own family doesn’t want me, Dallon. They never have. And the whole goddamn reason I went to Clearfield was to get away from them. And you. _You_ , Dallon, were the only thing that fucking mattered then. You were the only one who wanted me and if I... If I loved you, that would have ruined it.”

Dallon blinked in shock. 

“I needed you, okay?" Brendon said. "And not romantically. I needed you as my friend. I didn’t need to kiss you or hold your hand or whatever the hell love’s bullshit expects you to do. Because I didn’t get it, alright? I didn’t get what love was and I really don’t get it now either. But I’m trying to figure it out and I know—I _know_ , Dallon—that Ryan has something to do with it.”

“Brendon," Dallon tried. "He’s not—”

“Let me fall apart,” Brendon begged, growing frantic. “Please; if you really think he’s lying to me or that he’s going to destroy me in the future, fucking let him. Dallon I have _never_ felt this way about someone before. Ever. And I need it. I need to get my heart broken. I need him and I need you and I need to know what it’s like to be completely enveloped in another person. For clouds and air not to matter, to hold someone’s hand and not let want to let go. I need to want another person and I need them to want me back; Dallon, please. Let me have this.”

Dallon looked at him for a long time and when he spoke it was quiet, so quiet that it barely breached the air around them. Could barely be processed as a voice at all. “Why couldn’t you have that with me?”

Brendon let his form slack. That was the question, wasn’t it? Why not Dallon? Why Ryan? And really, there wasn’t a good answer. 

There wasn’t a straightforward, ‘here’s how it is’ phrase that could all contain it. Dallon was a fantastic guy and maybe, in a different lifetime, Brendon could learn to love him. Not this one. Maybe if Brendon hadn't been so screwed in the head when he was nineteen. Then maybe it would have been different. And it wasn’t because of any ill will towards the man. It wasn’t because Dallon was bad or that he wasn’t good enough for Brendon. It was more that Ryan was Ryan and that’s all there was to it.

“Dallon, I love you,” Brendon sighed. 

“Please don’t say that.”

“I do. I love you so much. But not—”

Dallon sounded defeated. “Not how you love him.” 

Brendon shook his head in response. That’s as simple as it was. Brendon went on to say, because he felt it needed more explaining—had to make it as clear as possible, “I need you Dallon. And I never meant to hurt you.”

“It doesn’t matter if you didn’t _mean_ to Brendon.” Dallon jerked his head up. “It doesn’t matter what you meant to happen. I-I’m hurt. And you can’t say I don’t have reason to be.”

“You have plenty of reason.” Brendon took in a quivering breath. He wasn’t going to cry. Not again. “You can hate me if you want.”

“I don’t—” Dallon glanced away. “I don’t hate you, Brendon, I’m just—I’m struggling. I’m hurting and I can’t make sense of any of this and I don’t know _how_ to make sense of it.”

He waved a swift hand in the air as if trying to swat away the pain that was attacking him. As if he could throw the heart off his sleeve so it wouldn’t bother him any longer. 

Brendon only stood frozen across from him, gazing at Dallon with sad eyes, his heart already open and bloody in his chest. Pouring out. He didn’t think he would say ‘I love you’ for the first two times in one week. 

Didn’t think he would manage to break his best friend’s heart in that same time or finally figure out that he loved someone. Have two people love him too. Had it really only been a week? Felt like a lifetime dedicated only to love. 

Dallon licked at his lips and he shrugged apathetically. Brendon didn’t know what he was supposed to say. 

“Can’t we just—” Brendon swallowed. “I don’t know, start over? Pretend this didn’t happen? Go back to how it was at the creek?”

“We can’t pretend this didn’t happen,” Dallon replied all too quickly. The same way a twig sounded when it snapped beneath a boot. Sharp, fast, and broken. 

Brendon stopped dead. 

“There is no way I can do that, Brendon. I can’t just—” He choked on what Brendon hoped was a laugh. “I can’t quit loving you. I can’t go back to pretending I don’t. Not when this is all out there.”

“You don’t love me, Dallon,” Brendon said. “You just… you—” 

“Love you,” Dallon persisted. “I love you. You can’t change that.” 

Brendon wasn't going to cry. “Dallon, please. I need you.”

“You can quit saying that.” Dallon rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard it enough.”

“I don’t know what else I’m meant to say,” Brendon confessed. 

Dallon let out a pitiful laugh. Brendon really hoped they were laughs. “That you love me. That’s what you’re _meant_ to say. That you love me too.”

“Dallon—”

“I know.” Dallon threw his hands up. “I fucking know you don’t. You don’t have to say it. I’ve heard all this enough. You just keep saying the same things over and over again. I get it, I mean something to you. I get it, you don’t love me back. I get it, Brendon, I fucking get it.”

Brendon grimaced at Dallon’s apathy. The way he spoke like he didn’t care, even though it was painfully obvious in his blue eyes how much he did. 

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to… to go on after this,” Dallon said. “With you, I mean. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be to you.”

“My friend,” Brendon pleaded instantly. “My friend, Dallon; that’s what I want you to be.”

“But that’s not what I want to be.”

“Don’t be a fucking child, Dallon.” Brendon couldn’t help his voice growing impatient. “I can’t change my feelings. I can’t do it. That boy upstairs? I love him. And no amount of whining from you is going to change that.”

“Stop saying you love him,” Dallon rebuked. 

“Why?” Brendon asked. 

“Because—” Dallon’s voice was edging close to a wail. “He doesn’t love you, Brendon. He doesn’t. Ryan Ross isn’t what you—He is going to leave you, Brendon. Leave you and I don’t see him coming back.”

Brendon growled. “You don’t know him.”

“You’re right,” Dallon conceded. “You’re right. I don’t know him. I don’t need to. I know his kind. Some heterosexual asshole that’s in it for the experience. Just so he can feel a little better about himself. ‘Look at that; I’m desirable to both women _and_ men’. It’s an experience for him, Brendon. That’s all you are. Just like all those men at the creek were to you. Another mouth to fuck.”

Few things actually disgusted Brendon Urie. He wore dead men’s wedding rings for God’s sake and killed men and was fine with blood in his hair. Few things could rile him up. But that idea? The prospect that he was nothing more to Ryan than another body—that thought was repulsing. 

And he knew it wasn’t true. Knew it for a fact. No matter how many times Dallon Weekes tried to plant that idea in his head, it wouldn’t root. He knew the way that Ryan looked at him. Knew the way Ryan held him and kissed him. He had seen the insides of the baby bible for God's sake. Ryan wasn’t that good a liar. 

“You’re wrong,” Brendon said, so simply, and it was the truth. Dallon was wrong. 

Dallon crinkled his nose and there was something about his gaze that was almost close to pity. Almost like he pitied Brendon’s feelings. As if they were wrong, which they weren’t. Dallon was the one with backwards thoughts. 

“Ryan’ll come back,” Brendon said, and it was a fact. “He hates Vegas and he hates his dad more and I matter to him. It’s taken me this long to realize it, but I matter, Dallon. I never thought I did before. And it’s Ryan that makes me realize that.”

Dallon blinked up at him, as if Brendon was the one who was taller. It didn’t matter if Dallon was physically larger; Brendon towered over him now. 

“See, I never understood the definition of love. You said it was someone you wanted to kiss and hold hands with. It’s so much more than that. It’s so much more complex. And Eric said it was a want for a person and it is in a way. And Jon said all you would want to breathe was them. And that makes sense but it isn’t entirely it.” 

Brendon gestured to Dallon as if he was the teacher. As if Brendon was the one who was educated; the one teaching a class and Dallon was his stupid pupil who threw paper airplanes to distract girls and gave him such a bad headache he had to go to the drugstore to buy pills. 

“And I asked Ryan. I asked Ryan and he told me ‘trust me; you’ll know if you love someone’ and I do.” Brendon nodded vigorously. “I know, Dallon. I _know_ I love him. I don’t need a definition to know that.”

Dallon stared at him for a long time. He had nothing to say. 

“And you’re my best friend,” Brendon continued when the silence scared him. “And I need you to… I need you on this. I need to have you by a creek edge and I need to tell you when I’ve fought with him and I need to be able to sleep on your couch when I’m drunk and I need you to play cards with me and watch Looney Tunes and help me write songs. I need you.” 

It was obvious he was begging. He didn’t try to hide it; didn’t need to. He was begging. 

Dallon knew it too. 

“Brendon—” He started and that wasn’t a good start. “I can’t… go back to how things were. I can’t do that… no matter how much you want me to. I just can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

Dallon really didn’t have anything to be sorry for. Nothing except being in love with him and kissing him in a stairwell. That was it really. Just being in love with Brendon in the first place. 

Brendon wished people he loved would stop apologizing to him as if they were the problem. When would they realize that it wasn’t them? It was him. He was the one who should apologize. 

“No,” he said, because it needed to be said. “I’m sorry I did this to you.”

“Yeah.” Dallon nodded. “Me too.”

This wasn’t how Brendon wanted the conversation to have gone. This wasn’t it at all. He wanted Dallon to say they could be friends again. Nothing more. That they could go back to not kissing in closets and Dallon could stop wanting to hold his hand. He wanted everything to go back to how it was before he went to France. 

But no he didn’t. He wanted to die when he wasn’t in France. He’d done alright in France without Dallon. He had done fine when it was only Ryan and him. He was alive, wasn’t he? That meant he was doing alright. 

They stood in silence. Brendon didn’t know if he was expected to speak or not. If Dallon was going to speak at all. 

A beat. 

Two more. 

Everything was eerily quiet and upstairs there was a small shout. Brendon didn’t know what the words were but someone had yelled. Dallon looked at the ceiling and it was obvious he had heard it too. 

“I suppose that’s Eric then,” he mumbled absently. 

“Probably Jon,” Brendon remarked. “He’s been drunk a lot lately.”

“Cassie and he fought,” Dallon said like that was the answer. 

“Yeah but they love each other,” Brendon proposed, and he looked at Dallon. Hoped his subtext was clear. “They’ll always come back together.” 

Dallon shook his head. “I think this time’s different.”

And he didn’t say anything else before he turned and walked to the stairs leading to the Walk of Shame. Brendon stood in the middle of The Church and watched him go. He didn’t know if he was expected to follow or not, but he did. 

Waited until Dallon was a few steps ahead of him and he plodded after, taking the stairs in slow, depressing strides. His leg was hurting and the rest of his body was too. His heart hurt worst of all. He didn’t know what sort of bandage he was able to put on it. It needed a big one. 

If there was such a thing as bandages for hearts. Probably not. Wishful thinking and all that.

Dallon shoved open the door to the upstairs and Brendon heard a symphony of scrambling feet and Jon’s voice saying, bold, “Dally.”

A form of greeting that didn’t do much in terms of a ‘hello’. Sounded too much like an accusation to be a greeting. 

Eric mimicked the sound and Brendon finally walked out onto the top floor, Dallon a few steps ahead of him. Eric, Jon, and Ryan were standing in the center of the room in a triangle formation of sorts with a collection of cards sprawled at their feet. 

Ryan saw him instantly. Brendon's depressed features, his slumped shoulders and the defeat that was plain on his face. That's what it was. Defeat. And—as a foil to the others—Ryan said, “Bren.”

That one word was enough to confirm all of Brendon’s thoughts. For everything to make perfect sense. Dallon Weekes was wrong. Ryan loved him. That word was enough proof. And maybe it was for Dallon too as—much to Brendon’s surprise—he pivoted to see Ryan and said, “You.”

Ryan’s body stiffened and he returned nervously, terrified, “Dallon. Hi.”

Dallon didn’t even pull them aside to speak. Only stood there across from Ryan in the middle of a straight bar with Eric and Jon at either side of Ryan and Brendon behind him, terse energy radiating from him. 

Dallon swallowed and he took a peek from the floor back up to Ryan. He said, in a hiss, “He loves you then, is what I've gathered. He loves you.”

Ryan squinted as if the words hurt and Brendon did the same. 

“And you,” Dallon went on. Sharp. Broken. A twig beneath a heel once more. “You love him?”

Ryan didn’t take a moment to reply. “Yeah. I do. I really, really do.”

Eric made a sound like he was struggling to breathe, and Brendon did his best to ignore it. Jon made a hacking sound and angled his gaze away like he didn’t want to watch the altercation take place even though Brendon knew he did. Knew he wanted the drama. 

Dallon nodded carefully to himself. His voice was small. “I do too.”

Brendon could see Ryan swallow thickly. His voice came out equally as stressed. “I know you do.”

Dallon laughed, uneasy and unfamiliar to his voice. A laugh that wasn't his own. “Of course you do.”

There was a pause. 

“You going back to Vegas?” Dallon asked him. 

It wasn’t his place to ask such a thing and Ryan made a face like he didn’t appreciate the question much, but didn’t wait to say, “Eventually I will.”

“Your old man is dead?”

Ryan shifted. “Yeah.”

Dallon asked, “You gonna come back after?” 

Ryan nodded, his eyes flashing a new emotion. “Yes.”

Dallon hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Brendon standing in front of the door. “For him?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “For him.”

Eric made another squeak. 

Dallon nodded slowly. As if it all suddenly made sense. And then he walked forward, straight between Jon and Ryan like he was going to leave. Jon stepped aside like he was going to let him. And, unexpectedly, Ryan caught Dallon by the forearm. 

Dallon didn’t tug away, only stopped and turned to Ryan. Stared at him. Waited for him to speak. Everyone held their breath in turn. 

Ryan said the words carefully and lowered. As if—even in the room with five people—they were meant only for Dallon to hear. 

“I’m sorry all this happened the way it did,” Ryan murmured and he really did sound sorry. Terribly sorry. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

Dallon blinked. Scoffed and looked at Brendon. He pulled himself out of Ryan’s grip. He said, and his heartbroken blue eyes didn’t leave Brendon’s, “I’m not under the impression I ever had him to begin with.”

And he walked out of the bar, the door clattering shut behind him. 

And Ryan turned to Brendon, saw the destroyed expression he wore on his face, and—with two long strides and an arm around his waist in a firm hug—replaced Dallon at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks again for reading! I am currently doing fancy real-life things right now, so the next chapter will be more delayed. It will probably be posted on Wednesday or Thursday of next week unless I get time earlier. Thank you for your ongoing patience and kindness!


	33. One of Those Wondering Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry that this is late!! Life takes longer than I thought it did. That being said, long boi ahead.

Ryan Ross learned how to play Rummy in Highschool when he was fourteen years old. Granted, he learned a lot of things in Highschool. None that he actually remembered though. None that mattered. A lot of what they taught you in Highschool, you didn’t need to know in France, so Ryan hadn’t bothered with it. 

Spencer had taught him to play the game during lunch one day when there wasn’t anything better to do. No new girls to ogle or people to poke fun at. Ryan had lost three times before he called it quits, saying he never wanted to see a deck of cards again in his life. 

That was the only time he played Rummy. At lunch with Spencer during Freshman year. However, the card game came back years later when he was in Metz, France. Rummy came back to bite him in the ass. 

The human mind confused Ryan Ross; it always had. Nothing about it clicked quite right to him. And he worried that perhaps his mind was the one that didn’t fit the algorithm. As it turned out though, there wasn’t any algorithm at all. Everyone’s brain was fucked it its own way. Especially in France. Especially in war. 

If a guy wasn’t fucked up in war, that meant he was severely more fucked up in a different way. 

Every guy there—in France—had something to focus their brain on. Something that they used to distract their mind and their fucked-up thoughts. To distract their itching fingers and the pace of their erratic heartbeat. 

Ryan Ross had his baby bible, Brendon Urie had his dead man rings, Dan Pawlovich had his terseness; his hatred, Mike Naran had his foot and a gun—because he _couldn’t_ distract himself, and William Beckett had his deck of cards. 

Before he was shot in the head, of course. 

William Beckett had a thing for cards. Had this ugly deck with frayed edges that he kept in his jacket pocket. Ryan didn’t remember where William said he got it from; some little shop in his hometown, maybe. But, more specifically, William Becket had a thing for the game Rummy. Before he was shot in the head, anyway.

Whenever the men had an off moment, when the silence was eating them alive and they wanted something—anything—to just _happen_ , William Beckett would pull the deck of cards from his pack and say, “Anyone up for a game?”

That was the worst part of war. The silence. 

The days when nothing happened except the march and men would sit up at night wondering, _is this it? Is that all? No bombs? No gunshots? Just the thunk of boots in puddles and the clink of rifles on backs? Is that it? Am I not going to die today?_

And you never knew. Just had to sit there and wonder about it. 

Those were the days that William Beckett found it important to pull out his deck of cards and share. The days in silence when men were wondering and William would announce, unprompted and far too loud for France, “I got my deck out, if anyone wants in!” 

Rummy was William’s game of choice when people agreed to sit and play with him. He couldn’t play poker because he smiled too much; no poker face. Go Fish was a kid’s game by William’s standards and War was—War was out of the question because William liked to make bad jokes and that was a bad joke waiting to happen. 

So Rummy was what he decided on. 

Not that William was any good at Rummy; he wasn’t. He was actually about as shit as you could be at a game like that. But it made him smile to play, made him forget about France and everything else, and that was really all a guy wanted. Just to be distracted. 

Every guy had a thing and, before he got shot in the head, Rummy was William Beckett’s. 

Most of the men played with William, almost everyone at least once. You hadn’t really been to France if you hadn’t beat William Beckett at Rummy at least once on one of those wondering days. 

Brendon Urie played a few rounds a few times. Ryan wondered if Brendon remembered that. If he remembered sitting across from William Beckett with a smirk on his handsome face after winning two rounds and William saying, “Goddamn, Urie, how do you do that? I’m glad we don’t have any money to bet; I’d’ve lost it all by now. Goddamn, man.”

“Go for the aces,” Brendon had returned nonchalantly, as smug as a man who played Rummy in war could be. “I don’t care about anything but the aces.”

It turned out—when Ryan had asked later and Brendon answered—that Brendon didn’t actually know how to play the game. Not really. He didn’t care about strategy or planning or any of what the game was supposed to be. Brendon cared that aces were the highest point count in Rummy and he wanted the highest point count. That was how he won, time and time again. Just got all four aces and he was the winner by default. You couldn’t fight a guy with all four aces. 

He also told Ryan it was the nicest looking card and that influenced his decision as well. 

Ryan had laughed, because it was a funny thing, and he hadn’t ever told Brendon off for playing wrong. Just remembered it for a later date. And finally, that day paid off. 

Ryan Ross sitting on the floor of a bar called the Walk of Shame with Shit-Bricks-Eric Ronick sitting across from him and Jon Walker—an asshole drunk—on the other side. And Ryan knew what he was looking for. Knew how he was supposed to play the game. 

He was going after Aces. 

Although, he might have felt a lot better—more clever about his strategy—if Jon and Eric showed any indication of actually being good players in the slightest. 

He would have felt a lot smarter if it didn’t seem like he was playing teenagers in Freshman year of Highschool with Spencer Smith teasing him about popping his cherry. 

“Lemme see your hand,” Eric said, craning his neck to see the cards Jon was harboring. 

“Aye!” Jon snapped, pulling himself away and hugging his cards to his chest so Eric couldn’t get a look at them. “What the hell, Ronnie?”

Eric furrowed his brow. “I wanna see your hand.”

“No!” Jon cried, extremely intoxicated, and keeping himself leaned away from Eric. He was in danger of tipping over his bottle of brandy but Ryan didn’t say anything about. If he spilled it, he spilled it. They could clean it up. “You can’t see my hand!”

“Why not?” Eric whined. “I want the set of queens and right now I have the spades and the hearts in my deck and Ryan already laid down the queen of clubs so that means either you have the last one or the deck in the middle has it. So, show me your hand so I can see if you have it or not.”

Ryan snorted. “Eric… We’re not supposed to know what cards you have. I thought you knew how to play Rummy.”

“I do,” Eric replied, sounding partially offended that Ryan insinuated he didn’t. “I just like adding my own rules.”

“Eric, sit your ass back down,” Jon commanded, and Eric reluctantly did as he was told so Jon could sit back up comfortably. “I don’t have your diamond queen, okay? It’s probably in the deck.”

“Dammit,” Eric hissed, pouting. 

Ryan laughed, shaking his head, as he took the queen of diamonds from his hand. “Here, Eric. If you want it so badly.”

Eric’s face lit up instantly as he took the card that Ryan offered him. Ryan wasn’t in the mood to seriously play Rummy. His body was a little too tense. His mind was worse off. All he needed was a good laugh, something to distract from the silence downstairs. 

A different type of war but still as strenuous. Ryan supposed wondering days never got better. 

He wondered if Brendon and Dallon had gotten into it yet. It had only been about ten minutes, but that was plenty of time for Brendon to say, ‘I had sex with Ryan; goodnight’. 

Perhaps, though, there was more that needed to be addressed. 

“Thank you!” Eric cheered and he put down his three queens with a triumph, his hand slapping the wooden floor.

Jon rolled his eyes. 

“That’s what?” Eric asked. “Thirty points right there. I’m gonna beat you two.”

Ryan didn’t point out he had laid down three aces, meaning he had a remarkable forty-five points plus the three fives, meaning fifteen points and his collection of the eight, nine, and ten of the diamonds. Eighty-seven points in total. 

Eric had thirty but it was fine, they weren’t playing to win. Just playing to play. 

“Sure you are,” Jon grumbled as he discarded. He had three twos. So technically, Eric was doing alright. “I hate this game.”

“I’m having a damn good time,” Eric countered through a smile. 

“You’re only having a damn good time because Ryro here _gave_ you his queen.” 

“It’s all about sharing, Jon,” Ryan hummed, and Jon sent him a scowl. Eric only grinned wider. 

Eric seemed a nice fella to hang out with. Maybe he, Ryan, and Brendon could go out for a drink sometime when Ryan came back from Vegas or when Brendon finished breaking Dallon’s heart. 

“Absolutely it is,” Eric agreed before glancing at Jon from the corner of his eyes as he collected a new card from the deck. “Speaking of sharing—” 

“I swear, Ronnie, if you ask me about—” Jon started. 

“How’re things with the wife?”

Jon glowered at Eric with flames in his eyes. “Things are _swell_ , Ronnie.”

“Are they really?” Eric interrogated in a type of song, shuffling the five cards in his hand. “You goin’ home tonight?”

“They aren’t _that_ swell.”

Ryan sniggered. He asked, placing his own card down, “She mad at you? Cass is her name, right?” 

Jon sent him a look, cocking a brow. “Cassie, yeah. How’d you know that?”

“Sarah told me when I first came to the bar,” Ryan said with a nod to the cards. “It’s your turn. She said they were friends.”

Jon drew a card, looked at it, and discarded it. It was the jack of diamonds. 

“Rummy on the board,” Ryan said and collected his winnings. Neither Jon nor Eric said anything. Maybe Ryan was better at playing Rummy than he thought. “So—Cassie then—is she mad at you?” 

Jon opened his mouth to speak but Eric beat him to the punch, “Furious.”

Ryan looked at Eric and quirked his lips to a smile. “Really?”

“She’s not,” Jon started. 

“Absolutely furious,” Eric went on, ignoring Jon. “Never seen a woman with so much fury in her eyes. I swear, she might’ve killed him if he’d stayed in that house.”

“That’s not true,” Jon grumbled, directing his eyes to his cards and away from Eric and Ryan. 

“What made her so mad?” Ryan wanted to know. 

“Jon’s an alcoholic,” Eric explained. 

“I’m not.”

“Terrible, really,” Eric resumed. “He’s a touchy drunk too.”

“I’m really not.”

“Is he?” Ryan quizzed, faking surprise. 

“Very touchy,” Eric answered in a tune, playing a group of three on the bar floor. “The way he was hanging on me? You might think he was a fag.”

“Eric,” Jon warned. “I will _kill_ you.”

“Sort of endearing in a way,” Eric continued like he hadn’t heard. “Made me think he cared.”

Ryan laughed, discarding. “I bet.”

Jon made like he was going to punch Eric on the arm and Eric giggled, tugging away from him. Ryan only shook his head, snickering to himself at the display. Eric couldn’t wipe the shit-eating grin off his face and Jon looked close to murder. 

There was silence downstairs. Ryan wondered if Dallon’s heart was broken yet. 

“How long have you two been married?” Ryan asked, directed at Jon, trying hard to keep his mind preoccupied. 

“Six years,” Jon answered. 

Ryan glanced over, furrowing his brow as he peered at Jon Walker. 

He didn’t look like an old man, maybe the same age as Ryan if not a year or two older. He had a shadowed beard and his eyes were hickory colored and his hair was slicked back carefully and his suit cut quite the fine figure. 

“How old were you?” Ryan wanted to know, forgetting to discard. “When you got married?”

“Nineteen,” Jon answered flatly.

Ryan widened his eyes. He repeated, “ _Ninteen_?”

“Uh huh,” Jon grunted and he drew a card. “Nineteen. It was March 5th and too fucking hot and I thought I was gonna sweat through my dad’s suit.”

Eric smiled fondly. Ryan assumed he attended. 

“That’s young,” Ryan said. But he supposed it wasn’t really. 

Plenty of men got married at nineteen, especially those going off to war. Trapping their woman in a promise so they couldn’t lose her once they went off. 

Would things have gone differently if Ryan had done that to Z? Proposed to her; made her wait for him to come back? Would she still have fallen for Spencer while he was away? Maybe, maybe not. It didn’t matter. It worked out alright as it was. If he had proposed to Z before he left, he wouldn’t have gotten Brendon. 

Ryan was happy with what he had. 

“Well true love and all that,” Eric said. 

“Uh huh.” Jon nodded. “True love.”

“Did you two date in Highschool?” Ryan questioned. 

“Yeah,” Jon told him. “Since Freshman year. Had to have her, y’know. Had to.” 

“I dated my girl—Elizabeth, was her name—during senior year,” Ryan explained and he realized they had all stopped laying down cards. “We’d be going on six years too. If uh… if we were still together.”

He glanced up to realize Eric had stopped smiling and, instead, had Ryan fixed in a wide-eyed stare. Sympathy. Eric was quite the sucker for love, wasn’t he? Ryan wondered if Eric had ever been in love before. Not that he would ask. 

“Girl?” Jon repeated. “You dated a—You date dames?”

Ryan sent him a quizzical look. “Yes…?”

“Wait wait—” Jon waved a hand, squeezing his eyes tight like he had a headache. “I’m confused. You… you’ve dated a dame in the past—” 

“Two,” Ryan added. “Two dames.”

“Two dames then,” Jon reiterated. “You’ve dated two dames but here you are now… and you’re fucking men. That doesn’t make—What the hell?”

Ryan felt his cheeks grow hot. “Oh uh…”

“Ryro, explain this to me,” Jon said. “Do you like girls, or d’you like boys?”

Ryan blinked a few times as he tried to get his brain to process the question. It sounded like it had been spoken in a different language. He glanced at Eric who was only staring back at him expectantly. A real sucker for love. 

“I—” 

He shrugged, because he didn’t have an answer to that question. Nothing straight forward. He wasn’t exactly attracted to anyone aside from Z and Brendon. And he had never given it much thought before. So, he answered the best he could.

“I like Brendon.”

Eric cooed how a cat did after it had been scratched behind the ears. 

Jon only rolled his eyes, making a gagging sound in the back of his throat. Ryan didn’t mind so much. It was the truth. He didn’t like boys and he didn’t like girls. He used to like Z and now he liked Brendon. That’s all there was too it. 

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Eric purred on, pleased. “Did you hear that? He likes _Brendon_ —”

“I heard it,” Jon interrupted, sounding partially disgusted. “I heard his Highschool crush confession. I heard it. Don’t need to say it again.”

Ryan and Eric shared a laugh. 

“What does that mean then?” Jon asked, looking pointedly at Ryan. He laughed to himself like something was worth laughing at. “What, that you’re in love with the boy?”

Ryan stared back blankly. 

Jon’s jaw slacked. “Hot damn; you’re in love with the boy.”

Eric’s head snapped to the side to Ryan. Instantly, he asked, “Did you two talk?” 

Ryan nodded his head while chuckling awkwardly, and he shifted in his position on the wooden floor. He wished Brendon would hurry up downstairs. He didn’t like how long it was taking. Didn’t like how quiet it was. The door must have been too thick. 

He wished Jon Walker had invested in thinner doors. 

“Well, actually,” Eric went on with no invitation. “I suppose you had to’ve. You did have sex after all, that must require conversation. Can’t just pounce on him.”

“Maybe Brendon pounced on _him_ ,” Jon proposed lazily. He drank some brandy.

Ryan didn’t like the new direction of conversation. He much preferred Eric’s addiction to queens or Jon Walker’s failing marriage. He was not eager to talk about his sex life with two people he barely knew. 

Eric turned his head fully to look at Jon. “Okay, that’s wrong. Brendon’s the pillow-biter.”

“You figure?” Jon asked. 

Ryan flashed his gaze between the pair. “I—Pillow-biter? What is—What are you talking about?”

Eric and Jon turned to him in unison. 

Jon didn’t have any shame in asking, “Was your cock in his ass or was his in yours?” 

Ryan fully choked on the air around him, hacking out a flabbergasted sound. 

_What the hell? What in the living hell; you can ask people that? You can just ask people that?_

Ryan beat his chest with a fist, trying to will away the coughing, and make his cheeks stop flushing so impossibly red. He was going crimson; both Eric and Jon could probably see it. 

“First one, right?” Eric asked and how could he be so casual about it? 

Ryan felt like he was about to have a heart attack; how could Eric just blink at him with tired brown eyes, lazy and simple, and say something like that? How in the hell?

“I—” Ryan couldn’t do much other than nod. That’s all he could think to do. Nod. _Yes. Yeah, my dick was in—Oh God_. Ryan didn’t like talking about his dick to other people. Felt sort of personal. 

“Okay, so I was right,” Eric said in a nod. “Brendon’s the pillow-biter. Told you. What position?”

Ryan’s face had to be the color of blood. He had to be. He fumbled to speak. “P-position? What do-what do you mean _position_?”

“Was he riding you or—” Eric waved a hand before stopping to say, quietly, “I like riding, personally.”

“Ronnie, I don’t need to know that,” Jon muttered to his side. 

“As if you didn’t know already.” Eric chuckled. “You know _me_.”

“I wish I didn’t,” Jon grunted, and Ryan felt the same. 

He wished he didn’t know Eric Ronick anymore and he wished he didn’t know Jon Walker and he wished Brendon could just hurry up and break Dallon Weekes’s heart because Ryan had never felt so uncomfortable in his entire life and he needed out _now_. 

“I don’t… uhm—” Ryan coughed again and covered his mouth with a fist. “I don’t know what other… I don’t know what ‘position’ means. I don’t know what… _riding_ … means. I’m very—I’m very confused.”

He was also very _afraid_ of the conversation at hand, but he wasn’t going to say that out loud. Some things a man kept to himself. Fear about sex was one of them. Ryan Ross learned that in Highschool. 

Jon and Eric stopped speaking abruptly to stare at him. Two sets of dark brown eyes boring into him and Ryan wished he hadn’t spoken at all. Wished he didn’t even have a mouth to begin with.

“You don’t—” Eric squinted. “What do you mean you don’t—?”

“Positions,” Jon repeated like that would change anything. 

Like the word being said again in a different tone would make Ryan go ‘oh yes! Of course. That’s what you mean. Right. Positions’.

“How you were… arranged.” Jon made an obscene gesture with hands. “Was he—You know, I’m not a faggot. I don’t need to talk about this. Eric? Would you kindly?”

Eric sent him a frantic look and then back at Ryan. He didn’t seem as excited about the topic. “Well, I—Positions, Ryan. Have you never… Don’t tell me you’re a virgin.”

Ryan shook his head vigorously. “N-no. No, I’m not. I just—Not used to the words, is all. Never really… Never talked about it before.”

“Oh, okay,” Eric said and he nodded to himself, seemingly more relaxed now that he had confirmation that Ryan wasn’t a virgin. 

Ryan wondered how much sex Eric thought he had had. In a lot of senses, Ryan _was_ a virgin. Only had sex with a girl once and once with a boy. He’d lost his virginity two times, technically. God, he was odd. He was an odd, odd man. And his head was royally fucked. 

“Well positions,” Eric went on and Ryan wondered if it would be rude to ask him to stop talking. “Is, you know, basically how you two are arranged. Like Jon said. I mean front to front, or back to back or maybe he’s bent over something. Riding would be that your cock is insi—”

“Okay, I’m alright thanks,” Ryan blurted before Eric had the chance to go into any more details. His hands were sitting in his lap and his palms were sweating. “You don’t need to—I think I get it. Thank you, Eric. Thank you. But I-I’m alright for now. You don’t need to tell me… I’m okay.” 

Jon had started laughing quietly beside them and Eric only peered at Ryan with a tilted head, seemingly disappointed that he couldn’t go on with his sexual education. Maybe another time. Far into the future. Maybe in the very distant future, Ryan would let Eric Ronick talk to him about gay sex. But not tonight. He was alright without it tonight.

“Not a virgin my ass,” Jon snorted, and Ryan did his best to ignore him. Ignore the feeling that he was back in Highschool playing Rummy at the lunch table with Spencer Smith saying he was a loser for not wanting to have sex at sixteen. 

Eric looked from Jon to Ryan and frowned. “Urie’s not your first, is he?”

Ryan shifted again. He couldn’t get comfortable. He made sure he wasn’t looking directly at Eric but at the pile of cards they had abandoned. He wished they hadn’t stopped playing. He couldn’t decide what to do with his hands, fiddling with his fingers. 

“Oh,” Eric said. As if he had it all figured out. “ _Oh_. Well, I guess that’s good… and all. I mean, he’s pretty… Good looking guy; a great choice to… to y’know. First time, wow.”

“I’ve had sex before,” Ryan insisted, extremely displeased by what Eric was saying. He wasn’t a virgin. Not really. Only sort of.

Eric straightened. “Oh right, yes. El-Elizabeth, I assume.”

Ryan nodded. “Yes. So, it’s not a… Not _my_ first time.”

“With a fella it is,” Jon butted back in. “First time as a faggot.”

Ryan hated that he kept using that word. He hated the word said out loud. He opened his mouth to retaliate, to tell Jon off for being a God-awful person and a worse card player but Eric was already speaking.

“First time with Brendon,” Eric suggested. “That’s important. First time with someone you love, y’know.”

“No, it’s not,” Jon said before Ryan could agree. “Not for fags it’s not. Faggots don’t _date_ one another. You can’t marry a faggot. Can’t live with one or kiss one on the street. All faggots do are fuck a few times and move on to the next one before feelings get attached. ‘Fore you get the chance to be caught. Feelings aren’t smart when you’re a faggot. First times don’t mean jackshit when you’re queer.”

Ryan looked at Jon and he wanted Eric to say something. Eric, the queer in the circle, to tell him off. Tell him he was wrong. But Eric only sat there, staring at him with sad brown eyes. All too knowing eyes. 

Silence. 

Ryan’s heart thumped sluggishly in his chest and his blood felt clumped through his veins. Like it wasn’t getting where it needed to in his brain. 

“You’re not actually planning on…” Jon waved a hand at Ryan. “You’re not planning on playing married life with B, are you?”

“What do you mean?” Ryan asked. 

“I mean this… this ‘love’ thing. Liking only him.” Jon puckered his lips. “You know you’re an idiot, don’t you? You can’t date someone if you’re a faggot.”

“I know that,” Ryan bit back. “I’m not going to _date_ him.”

“What’re you gonna do?” Eric piped up. 

Ryan opened his mouth, fully intending to have an answer. To put Jon Walker in his place. To explain his intentions with Brendon. Everything he had planned for the two of them when he got back from Las Vegas. But then it occurred that he didn’t have anything. Not a plan at all. 

He couldn’t date Brendon. He couldn’t kiss him unless they were alone, and he couldn’t touch him or let his gaze linger too long. He would have to watch his back at every turn. It was starting to sink in. Was Ryan Ross cut out to be a faggot?

“I’ll figure it out,” Ryan said. “We’ll figure it out.”

Jon let out a hard scoff and hit the floor with the palm of his hand. His voice was too loud for just the three of them and Ryan bet Brendon and Dallon could hear them downstairs. “In your dreams, kid! This is gonna last a week, at most. You’re gonna fuck him a few more times and then you’re gonna get bored of how his cock tastes and how his body bends and move on to another one. It’s how faggots work and it’s how they’ll always work.”

“Screw you,” Ryan said because that was all he could think to say. 

“Boys,” Eric mumbled, and he sounded nothing but tired. “Please don’t.”

“Do you want to hit me?” Jon challenged. “Hit me if you want, hard as you can; I dare you.”

“I might just take you up on that offer,” Ryan said, and he was legitimately considering it.

Jon sneered. “How about you come and try that; if you think you’re—”

“ _Boys_!” Eric shouted. 

Jon and Ryan shut up instantly. Dallon and Brendon _definitely_ heard that. 

There was a long pause as they all looked between one another, trying to gauge what was supposed to happen next. Ryan felt like a child being reprimanded by an irritated parent. He crouched back, cowered, and Jon only glared at Eric. Dared him to say something else. 

Eric didn’t have anything else to tell them off for as he looked down, shaking his head. 

“Sorry,” Ryan spoke up before he could think against it. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Ryan,” Eric said. “Jon’s the one who—”

“It’s not my fault,” Jon protested, and he really did sound like a child who didn’t get his way. Looked like one too, the way that he was staring at Eric with large, round eyes, begging for approval. Ryan wondered why Jon Walker would need Eric’s. What was so special about Eric Ronick to him anyway? 

“Shut up, Jon,” Eric groaned, wiping a hand down his face. “Just fucking shut up, please.”

Jon snapped his mouth shut. 

“And lose the brandy, for God’s sake.” Eric gestured to the half-empty bottle at Jon’s side. “Your eyes are gone by now; put the thing up. Put it the fuck up.”

Jon didn’t say anything as he collected the bottle and went back to the bar to reluctantly place it back on a shelf. Ryan was surprised that Jon was willing to put it away so easily. How quickly he was willing to follow Eric Ronick’s commands. 

Eric shuffled the cards back into the deck. Ryan supposed the game was officially over.  
“Sorry about that,” Eric muttered, not making eye contact. 

“It’s alright,” Ryan affirmed. “I was—”

“Hush up,” Eric directed. “You apologized, I apologized, and Jon’s a bitch. We’re done with it. I’m done with it.”

Ryan didn’t reply as Jon returned to sit back down with them. Only continued to sit cross-legged on the floor with the quiet looming over them villainously and his hands in his lap, wondering how the night could get any more awkward. 

The door to The Church creaked open and shoes were thumping across the ground. The three men stood from their abandoned game of Rummy in surprise—jumped away like they had something to hide—and caught the sight of Dallon Weekes at the door. 

His blue eyes were hazy, and his face held no expression but loss, and he didn’t look at any of them. 

“Dally.” Jon was the first to break silence and Eric followed suit, mumbling out the same phrase. Dallon didn’t seem to reply to either of them. 

Ryan stared on, and the worry was quick to set in. The fact that it was only Dallon there and Brendon wasn’t anywhere to be seen and it had been completely quiet downstairs and—of course Dallon didn’t _kill_ Brendon. That was such a stupid thought. That was such an idiotic thought. Why did Ryan’s fucked-up brain have it?

Brendon’s two-toned oxfords came up the stairs a second later and Ryan snapped his head up to see Brendon at the top of the stairs. He was staring at Dallon’s back and there was something about his eyes. Something about the blackness that was empty and he looked like he was close to tears. 

“Bren,” Ryan said aloud; if nothing else, just so Brendon would know he was there. He was there. And he didn’t have anywhere else to be. 

Dallon Weekes snapped his head up instantly and an accusing finger came with it, aimed right at Ryan and Ryan stepped back in surprise at the gesture. Not sure what that meant. Fearful of what it did. 

“You.”

Ryan stared. Gawked for a moment before saying, low, “Dallon, hi.”

Dallon’s voice was venom. “He loves you then, is what I've gathered. He loves you.”

Ryan flinched. 

“And you,” Dallon continued, just as fragile. “You love him?”

Ryan knew the answer. He nodded. “Yeah. I do. I really, really do.”

Eric at his side made some sort of choking noise and Ryan wondered if he was alright. If Jon had finally decided to throttle him. 

Dallon let his eyes flash. Let his pain show to Ryan, clear as day. “I do too.”

Ryan forced pride down into his chest. “I know you do.”

Dallon scoffed. “Of course you do.” He paused. “You going back to Vegas?”

“Eventually,” Ryan answered. “I will.”

“Your old man is dead?”

Ryan didn’t need to tell Dallon that. But he said, “Yeah.”

“You gonna come back after?”

“Yes.” Because he was. 

“For him?” Dallon asked, anguished and he pointed over his shoulder at Brendon behind him who was simply staring on.

“Yes.” Ryan tentatively wet his lips. “For him.” 

Because that was the truth. There was no other reason he would stay in Clearfield. No reason he would stay away either. Wherever Brendon Urie was. That was where he needed to be.

Eric choked on air again and Dallon nodded to himself. And without another word he tried to leave. Tried to walk through Eric and Ryan and Ryan had to be surprised because really? That’s all? No punches? No shouting? No threats? Only a few questions and he was gone?

Ryan caught Dallon by the arm. Gave Dallon the time to punch him in the face if he wanted. Part of Ryan had wanted to punch Spencer when he found about Z. And it hit for a second that Dallon and he weren’t so different. 

But at least Ryan got three years of Z. Dallon only got two weeks of Brendon Urie. That wasn’t enough time. It was never enough time. 

“I’m sorry all this happened the way it did,” Ryan murmured; sorry there were so many people around to hear it. Sorry he had stolen a home from someone. Sorry for Brendon for losing a friend and sorry for Dallon for losing a home and sorry for himself for being the one to take it away. Sorry for himself that he was such a bad man. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

Dallon gave him a slow once over and then his eyes fell on Brendon. Resentment. That’s what that look was. Heartbreak. And he pulled himself from Ryan’s hold and said, “I’m not under the impression I ever had him to begin with.”

And he was gone. A moment later he was gone and out the door and it was only Eric Ronick and Jon Walker and Brendon Urie and Ryan Ross left. The four of them standing in a straight bar and three were faggots. And not a single one of them belonged there.

Ryan tilted his head up and saw Brendon standing there, staring after where Dallon had exited from the bar and Ryan went forward without a second thought, looping one of his arms around Brendon. 

If nothing else just to say, _I’m here. Look at me, please. I’m here_. 

Brendon’s mouth was parted as if he didn’t have the energy to keep it closed and he kept staring out the door after Dallon. He was gone. He was just gone. 

“Urie?” Eric prodded, his arms crossed over his middle and he cocked his head to the side. 

“Huh?” Brendon shook his head to clear his thoughts and focused on Eric across from him. He didn’t react to Ryan standing against him. Didn’t react to the arm around him or the shoulder pressed against his own. Ryan didn’t say anything, only stood where he needed to. Against Brendon, a hand resting on the small of his back. 

“You alright?” Eric asked, furrowing his brow. As if he cared. 

Ryan made sure not to move. 

“O-oh,” Brendon mumbled. His nod was delayed. Like he had come through in bad reception. “Yeah. Yes. I’m alright. I’m fine.”

Ryan held his hand firm against Brendon’s spine, against his sweater which had since been soaked through with sweat. The man was dripping. 

Jon Walker narrowed his eyes but said nothing. 

They all said nothing. Didn’t know what they were supposed to. What Brendon wanted them to say. What he needed them to. The night’s humor had bled away, and it was empty, the air. Empty and uncomfortable and Ryan’s cheeks were still pink, and Brendon looked nothing but lost. 

Ryan didn’t like how stale the air had become. 

“Bren,” he said quietly, and Brendon turned his head, almost surprised that Ryan was standing there beside him. Ryan did his best to smile. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Brendon returned. No attempt to smile.

“I think we should take a walk,” Ryan offered. 

Brendon nodded mechanically. Repeatedly. Expressionless. Like a doll. A paper doll. “A walk sounds nice. Could we, please?”

Ryan turned to Eric and Jon. He said, “Bren and I are—I think we should call it a night.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eric agreed hastily. “Getting late.”

“Real late,” Jon grunted and he stooped to collect the cards they had left across the bar’s ground. His fingers were shaking and his eyes were gone. He was drunk. 

Eric watched him pick them up. 

“Thank you, Eric,” Ryan said as he started to lead Brendon forward. Brendon’s legs moved haltingly as he walked. Like he didn’t know quite what to do with them. He hugged his arms around his middle. Ryan went on, “For the game of Rummy, I mean. Thanks.”

“Of course,” Eric returned. “Always got the deck. If you wanna play again. We don’t have to talk about sex next time, if you don’t want to.”

Ryan let out an embarrassed laugh when Brendon glanced up, giving him an astonished look that Ryan did his best to ignore. He said, “I’ll see you Eric.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow night,” Eric said. “You too Urie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There was something desperate about the way he said it, pleading, and Brendon gave him a small smile and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Eric.”

For the time being, that appeased the piano player, and he nodded once before he stooped to help Jon Walker collect Rummy cards off the floor. 

Ryan ushered Brendon along to the door and, as they reached it, slid his hand from Brendon’s spine. He was smart enough not to walk like that in public. Men didn’t walk like that together. 

Brendon didn’t protest—he knew how the world worked even better—and walked outside into the night air of Clearfield. Ryan followed and pulled the bar door shut. 

Brendon rubbed at his arms like the cold was getting to him. 

“C’mon,” Ryan beckoned with a bob of his head and he started in the direction of Brendon’s apartment with Brendon walking beside him. Click, click went their shoe soles and thump, thump went Ryan’s heart. 

Ryan was glad Brendon wasn’t crying this time. 

“Where do you wanna walk to?” Ryan asked after a second of tense quiet. 

“Home,” Brendon said. He didn’t say it timidly or with a lowered voice. The words were confident, and he didn’t sound so sad. Only blank. “Home would be good.”

Ryan nodded. “Home it is.”

And the apartment in Clearfield, Utah was home. Anywhere Brendon wanted to be was home.

Ryan let a moment pass in quiet as they walked, only shoes and heartbeats, before he said, “He’s pissed then.”

Brendon pursed his lips. “About as pissed as he can be, yep.”

Ryan swallowed. Sent Brendon a look from the corner of his eyes. “You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Maybe we could talk about this at the apartment,” Brendon suggested. 

Ryan didn’t like the new word choice. Didn’t like that it wasn’t home anymore. But he didn’t say anything and simply nodded. They could talk about it at the apartment. Brendon could talk and Ryan wanted to do nothing more than listen. 

“You played cards with Eric?” Brendon asked as they walked. 

“And Jon,” Ryan informed, willing to discuss a lighter topic. “Rummy.”

“Rummy?” Brendon perked up. “Really?”

“Uh huh.” Ryan fixed his hands into his pockets. “Damn good at it too.”

“What, you were?” Brendon had started to smile. 

“Went for the aces,” Ryan said, as if it was common knowledge. “All you gotta do. Don’t care about anything but the aces.”

Brendon stopped looking lost long enough to laugh. Shy, reserved for Brendon, but it was a laugh and Ryan loved it. Loved him. “Well, I’m glad someone had a good night.”

Ryan faltered. Didn’t say anything about Jon Walker daring Ryan to punch him and Eric snapping at him and the terribly awkward conversation about his sex life and Jon’s marriage. Only nodded. Slow and precise. _Yep. I had a good night_. If that was what Brendon wanted to hear, that’s what Ryan would say. 

“Hope Eric wasn’t…” Brendon chuckled, shaking his head. “Hope he wasn’t being Eric.”

“He was very much being Eric,” Ryan said, and it was plain in his voice that something had occurred and Brendon chuckled some more, his smile staying across his face. Ryan was thankful for that smile.

“And Jon?” Brendon questioned. “Is he any good at Rummy?”

“I think he was too drunk to be good,” Ryan answered. 

“Oh.” Brendon frowned. Waited a beat to add, “You know he and his wife are fighting.”

“Cassie,” Ryan said. “Yeah; I know.”

“You know Cassie?” Brendon asked, intrigued. 

“No, no,” Ryan explained. “I know Sarah. Sarah knows Cassie.”

“My neighbor Sarah? Wow, forgot all about her.”

“Yeah.” Ryan picked at a loose thread inside his trousers. “She’s a real nice dame. Talked to her at the bar tonight. Jon has a thing for her, I think. But uh… she’s got a thing for—” He lowered his voice to a hiss between the pair. “Nicole is her name.”

Brendon raised a brow. “I know Nicole.”

“Yeah, well, Sarah says she’s gonna get her back,” Ryan said matter-of-factly. “Apparently she got married to some guy and broke Sarah’s heart and all that. Sarah’s got it in her brain that she can win Nicole back. Seduce her.”

“Huh.” Brendon shrugged his shoulders. His pace had picked up. His mind must have been clearing the grey clouds away. “Hope that works out for her.”

“I think it will,” Ryan informed. “Sarah was dead set on it.”

“Good for her.”

“’Fight for that shit,’ she told me,” Ryan recited, and Brendon was watching him talk. “And I agree. Gotta fight for that shit.”

Brendon snorted. “You would think that.”

Ryan peered at him in question. 

“You are a soldier after all.” Brendon’s full lips quirked to a smile. “Better damn well know how to fight.”

Ryan laughed. He said, “Wasn’t ever any good at it though.” 

“Eh.” Brendon shrugged; his smile widening. “None of us were.”

The rest of the walk was in comfortable silence, Brendon straying a foot or two away from Ryan but they were still walking together. They were still walking home together and Brendon was still smiling at the corners of his mouth and Ryan still wanted to kiss him the first chance he got and Brendon still loved him. 

Brendon still loved him. 

They took the steps slowly but there was purpose evident in their steps. Get inside. That’s all they wanted to do. Get inside and away from the rest of the world; such as Dallon Weekes’s heartbroken eyes and Cassie and Jon Walker’s failing marriage and Sarah Orzechowski fighting for a girl named Nicole and Eric Ronick being Eric Ronick.

Ryan let Brendon get to the door first, fumble with his key for a moment before he finally got it out. Watched as he unlocked his door with tripping fingers. 

He walked straight into the house, Ryan going after him and turning to shut the door behind him with both hands. Ryan made sure to lock it before he turned around. 

Brendon was kicking off his oxfords and when he finally straightened around and looked at Ryan, he wasn’t smiling anymore. His black eyes were fixated on Ryan’s face and there was a distress to them.

Ryan almost asked if he was okay; even though he knew Brendon wasn’t. But he didn’t say anything—didn’t even get to—before Brendon had crossed the room in his socks and grabbed Ryan roughly by his loose suspenders to crash their mouths together. 

The kiss was forceful and uncoordinated, landing on one side of Ryan’s mouth more than the other. It wasn’t a kiss so much as it was a panicked action, one to say something that words couldn’t. 

And Ryan tried to return it peacefully but there was nothing peaceful about a kiss like that and Brendon pulled back just as quick as he had gone in, blinking profusely and shaking his head. He was out of breath. 

Ryan waited for him to say something. Didn’t push him away. Let Brendon stand there against him, clutching loose suspenders in his fists and breathing heavily. 

“Sorry,” Brendon mumbled after a moment, voice distant, and he let out a small huff. Defeat. “I’ve been waiting to do that since—I needed to do that.” 

“It’s okay,” Ryan said because it was. He didn’t think there was going to be a day when he wasn’t okay with Brendon Urie kissing him. He leaned forward carefully to place a more gentle kiss on Brendon’s hair, his hand going to rest on Brendon’s waist. A peace offering. “It’s fine.”

Brendon nodded and his laughter was mournful. He didn’t let go of Ryan’s suspenders.

“You wanna talk to me?” Ryan asked quietly against his hair and he wrapped both his arms around Brendon’s body, holding him close. 

He loved Brendon’s apartment in Clearfield, Utah. Loved Brendon’s two-toned oxfords forgotten on the floor next to the sofa. The red pack of camels tossed onto the coffee table and the two burnt cigarettes in the ashtray that belonged to Brendon and him from earlier that morning. Loved the baby bible forgotten on the single clean blanket on Brendon’s bed. He loved Brendon’s bed and how well it fit the two of them. He loved Brendon and himself, standing in the middle of the sitting room in front of the door, the window dark, wrapped around one another. 

He loved home. 

Brendon fixed his face into the crook of Ryan’s neck, breathing against the collar of his white shirt. His words were spoken against Ryan’s skin. “What d’you wanna talk about?”

Ryan shrugged. “Whatever you want to.”

“I don’t think I want to talk about anything,” Brendon said into his neck. 

“That’s okay too.”

Ryan moved one of his hands to the back of Brendon’s head, tucking his fingers into Brendon’s hair and massaging the back of his neck. Brendon was kind enough to let him do it. 

They stood there in the darkness of the apartment, night all around and pouring in from the window like water into a tidepool and Brendon simply breathed into the crook of Ryan’s neck and let Ryan pet his hair. 

“Do you want me to…” Ryan tried to think. “To do something for you? Anything?”

Brendon shifted his face and kissed at Ryan’s skin. “Stand here a little longer.”

So Ryan did. 

Brendon waited some time to say, and he was only saying it because it needed to be said—because it needed to be real and it needed to be out in the open, “Dallon’s not happy with me.”

“I didn’t think he would be.” Ryan smiled slightly. A miserable smile.

Brendon said, painful to speak aloud and painful for Ryan to hear, “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Ryan argued faintly as he stroked Brendon’s hair. It was dampening his fingers with sweat and grease. Brendon needed to take a bath. He smelt like cigarette smoke and sweat and a gay bar. Ryan needed to clean up too. He smelt the same. They reeked of one another. “He’s hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to—” Brendon mumbled. “I didn’t think that… I didn’t think.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“He hates me,” Brendon repeated, just as tired.

“No,” Ryan told him; more firm. “He doesn’t.” 

Another silence passed them by. 

And Ryan only stood there, holding Brendon against him as Brendon gripped his suspenders and breathed into his neck, his lips hovering over the skin. 

“My head hurts,” Brendon muttered. 

“Then stop thinking.”

“Can’t,” Brendon confessed. 

Ryan thought about it. Puckered his lips. He didn’t like how mournful Brendon sounded. Ryan was the one going to a funeral for God’s sake. Brendon should not sound like the one who lost someone. Even if he had lost someone. But Dallon wasn’t dead. Dallon was only pissed. It would pass. Surely, it would pass. 

Dallon would be an idiot to throw Brendon Urie away. 

“Okay…” Ryan said, trying to think on his feet. “Okay. I’m gonna do something about that then. I’m gonna make you stop thinking.”

He pulled back from Brendon’s embrace so Brendon was forced to look up at him with those black eyes of his, empty and exhausted. Ryan retracked his hands and used them to gesture as he talked. His body felt cold without Brendon against him. 

“I’m gonna, uhm, make a-a cup of coffee or-or tea for you, of some sort,” Ryan decided, trying to sound final. Like he knew what he was planning. 

Brendon knew he didn’t have a clue but he listened anyway. “Tea sounds good.”

Ryan pointed a finger at Brendon. “Tea? Yes; tea. I’ll make you a cup of tea then—extra sugar—and I’ll… I’ll run you a bath because—to be frank—you smell God-awful and you need a bath.”

Brendon’s laugh was abrupt and beautiful, the best thing Ryan had ever been the cause of. Brendon said, beaming, “I smell like _you_ , Ryan.” 

“Exactly,” Ryan agreed. “Disgusting. We have to do something about it.”

Brendon laughed again, just as pleasant the second time. 

Ryan said through his own returning grin, “Worse than war, the smell on you, Brendon Urie.”

Brendon shook his head in disbelief, but it was mocking and it was more awe than it was anything else. More love than it could have been sadness. His black eyes were growing interested again.

“You’re going to stop thinking, okay?” Ryan went on. “No more thinking for you. You’re gonna have a cup of tea with so much sugar you’re drowning in it, and you’re gonna wash me off you and I’m not gonna let you think about anything at all.”

“I’m thinking about kissing you,” Brendon returned evenly. 

Ryan raised a finger. “I will let you think about _one_ thing.”

Brendon laughed again, harder. He beckoned Ryan towards him with a wave of his hand. “C’mere.”

Ryan accepted the invitation without protest, meeting Brendon for a chaste kiss. Brendon leaned forward, as if he wanted to kiss for longer, and his hand hovered over Ryan’s side but—before he could deepen the kiss—Ryan stepped back. 

He flashed Brendon a smile and said, “I’m gonna run some water. You don’t mind me wasting your hot water, do you?”

“Waste away,” Brendon said. 

Ryan parted from Brendon yet again and walked to the bathroom. The bathroom that Brendon bathed him in when he first arrived in Clearfield a week prior. It seemed only fair that he return the favor. 

He started running Brendon a bath and listened for a moment to the clean water splashing into the tub. Oh, what he wouldn’t have given for a bath in France. Clean water, warm and soothing, on his dirt streaked skin. What he wouldn’t have given. 

He exited the bathroom, nodding with his head back to it—no words needed—for Brendon to go inside. Brendon laughed to himself as he passed Ryan into the bathroom where the sound of cascading water was prevalent. 

Ryan went to the kitchen and—after fumbling for a few minutes—managed to make a single cup of tea for Brendon. The sound of pouring water had recently shut off and the door to the bathroom was cracked partially open. 

Ryan could hear the sound of clothes hitting the floor and the splash of water. He smiled to himself. Felt accomplished. Like he had done anything at all. 

He reentered the bathroom, a cup of tea in one hand and Brendon’s pack of camels in the other. Just in case he needed them. 

Brendon was in the bath, reclined as far back as he could be—a grown man in a bathtub—with his eyes closed and his hands tucked behind his head against the wall. His hair wasn’t wet and the water only went to about his ribs. It was clear water—not as clear as a creek in Metz—but clear enough to see the rest of Brendon’s body perfectly. 

See his completely naked figure, his bruising hips, complete with his tanned stomach and the faint freckles on his skin and his soft dick in the stagnant water. 

Ryan snorted as he placed the steaming cup of tea on the closed toilet lid, moving to sit down beside the tub, resting his arm on the rim. 

Brendon opened one of his eyes to look at Ryan and smirked. “Hi.”

“Not very modest, are we?” Ryan teased and Brendon appeared pleased with himself. 

“Did you want me to be modest?”

Ryan shook his head. “I suppose not.”

“Good,” Brendon said. “I don’t like being modest.”

He sat up more in the tub, pulling his arms from behind his head to put them into the water in his lap. He let out a sigh, staring at the wall across from him. His eyes darted to the side to find Ryan there, sitting on his knees beside the tub. He cocked an eyebrow. 

Ryan decided that was his time to retrieve the hot cup off the toilet seat and hold it out to Brendon over the tub water. “I made you tea.”

Brendon laughed. “Thank you.”

He accepted the mug with two hands, continuing to chortle to himself like he’d heard a good joke. Ryan wished he knew what the punchline was. Brendon didn’t tell him though, only sipped carefully at his tea and laughed again when he parted. 

“Sweet,” he said. Brendon took another sip, winced slightly, and set it down outside the tub. “ _Very_ sweet.”

“Too sweet?” Ryan clarified, reaching down to take his own sip of the beverage. He had to wince as well. Definitely sweeter than he had intended. Sickeningly so. He set it down again beside the tub, pushing it away from him on the tiled floor. 

“Yes, the tea.” Brendon glanced at him, smiling. “But you too.”

He leaned forward over the rim expectantly and Ryan kissed him. Slow, as sweet as the tea Ryan couldn’t make, and their tongues slid together. 

“Mhm.” Brendon nodded to himself when they parted. “Sugar sweet. Every time.”

“Sorry I can’t make a good cup of tea,” Ryan apologized, and he took the discarded cup of tea from the floor, knowing Brendon wasn’t going to drink it, and carried it to the sink where he dumped the substance out and watched it swirl down the drain. 

Brendon watched him throw it out. “It wasn’t that bad. I like sugar.”

“Not that much sugar.” Ryan rolled his eyes as he returned to sit beside the tub, setting the empty cup next to him.

Brendon situated himself further towards the wall in the tub and he used one of his wet hands to rake through his hair, pushing back grease and sweat with warm water. Ryan watched him shamelessly. He wondered if he would get over it. How beautiful Brendon was. How his lips were shaped or how black his eyes were or how he smiled or laughed. He wondered if Brendon Urie would ever lose his appeal. 

He doubted it. 

“Well?” Brendon asked, sounding incredulous. 

Ryan frowned. “Well what?”

Brendon gestured to the tub with his head and he was using both hands now to slick water through his dark hair. Over and over his fingers carded through it and Ryan could watch the muscles in his arms move when he lifted them and the veins that traced up them. Watched Brendon smile at him. His full lips move around syllables as he asked, “You gonna get in with me? Or are you too modest?” 

Ryan laughed in surprise and shook his head, looking to the other end of the bathroom. It was tiny, the room. Ryan’s body was between the toilet and the tub and the sink was only a few feet away. It wasn’t made for two people. And that tub was not made for two men. But it was Brendon Urie sitting there in the clean water with a grin and those lips and those black eyes and, what? Was Ryan expected to say no?

For the second time that day, Ryan stood up and began to undress in front of Brendon. Although this time he didn’t have Brendon’s eager hands helping him. He didn’t stop though, stripping off his loose suspenders and his crumpled white shirt and trousers, his belt buckle making a click when it hit the floor. Brendon’s clothes had been discarded to the corner of the room and Ryan compiled his own ensemble to dump alongside Brendon’s on the floor. 

He turned back around, clad in his briefs, to find Brendon’s eyes fixed on him. He shouldn’t have felt self-conscious. He shouldn’t have. But he didn’t like being naked all that much. Even with Brendon looking at him with an evident hunger. 

He tried not to think as he tugged off his briefs and put them on the pile. 

Brendon was grinning at him when Ryan started towards the tub. Ryan paused at the edge and looked at him with a small frown. 

“Are we both gonna fit?” He asked. 

“Doubt it,” Brendon returned. “Now c’mon. I want you in here with me.”

Brendon shifted back against the wall, pulling his knees to his chest and Ryan snickered as he tried to get into the tub with him. He stepped into the water, fresh and perfectly warm, and sat across from Brendon with his own knees pulled up. 

His body sank luxuriously into the water, feeling it pool around him and splash against his ribs and bare skin. Brendon’s smile was stretching further across his face. 

“Hi,” he greeted. 

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Hey.”

“This isn’t gonna work,” Brendon said, and Ryan thoroughly agreed. The both of them sitting with their knees tight to their chests. It wasn’t a very comfortable way to be. “Here. Put your legs on my sides.”

Ryan started to extend his legs on either side of Brendon’s body like suggested and Brendon scooted forward, crossing his own legs on top of Ryan’s, hanging his thighs over Ryan’s and pressing his legs to Ryan’s sides. Brendon’s body was hot and even with the clean water between them, he stuck to Ryan like a leech in search for blood. Ryan sat stiffly as Brendon sat on him. 

Brendon laughed loudly at the new position, tossed over one another in the clean water. 

“Good, good,” he said through laughter. “Are you comfortable?”

To be honest— “Yeah,” Ryan answered.

Brendon seemed content with that information, so he settled, practically sitting in Ryan’s lap, and Ryan’s legs against Brendon’s sides and his knees slightly bent, feet pressing to the wall of the tub. It wasn’t so bad. He liked it. 

“I’ve never taken a bath with someone else,” Ryan said what he was thinking aloud. 

“I’ve never taken a _bath_ with someone,” Brendon replied, and he reached for the shampoo bottle on the side of the tub without any more stalling. “Took a shower once with a guy though.”

“Really?” Ryan asked and watched Brendon squirt the substance into his palm.

“Uh huh.” Brendon pushed soapy fingers into his own hair and began to scrub. Ryan didn’t know what to do with his hands so he settled for resting them on Brendon’s thighs. 

“How was that?” Ryan asked, watching Brendon rub fingers through greasy curls.

“Slippery,” Brendon answered and he put his hands into the water to rinse them off. He leaned over the side of the tub to collect the empty tea cup. He examined the inside to make sure it was truly empty before dipping it into the water and filling it up. 

“Oh,” Ryan said and he puckered his lips. Observed as Brendon closed his eyes, tilting his head back and pouring the cup of water onto his head, the liquid running down his face and dripping back through his soapy hair. “Was it… was it a sex thing?”

Brendon hacked out a laugh as he tilted his head back and white foam ran down the sides of his face and on his ears. He grinned as he refilled the mug and poured it back over his hair again, rinsing the suds out. “Yeah, Ry. It was a sex thing.” 

Ryan nodded slowly. “Huh.”

Brendon wiped his dripping hair back, the soap washed out of it. He took another mugful of water and reached across the tub to dump it onto Ryan’s head. Ryan let the warm water run over his face and through his hair and down his neck, closing his eyes. 

“Tilt your head back,” Brendon instructed and Ryan did so, Brendon taking more water and pouring it back through his hair. His fingers traced through Ryan’s locks gently, pulling at tangles.

“I have a question,” Ryan decided to say, his eyes still closed, as he listened to Brendon squirt shampoo in his hand.

“Shoot.”

“Eric said there were different positions in queer sex.”

He couldn’t see Brendon but he heard him fully choke on the air. Whether it was a gasp or a laugh, he didn’t exactly know. He figured it was a laugh when Brendon followed up with, “You’re not allowed to talk to Eric anymore. He’s taking away your innocence.”

Ryan peeked his eyes open, a slight glare, and Brendon was only smiling as he reached out to work soapy fingers into Ryan’s hair. The same as he had done to Ryan when he first came to Clearfield covered in bruises that his dad gave him. His dad who was dead now. 

The last thing his father ever gave to him. A black eye. 

When Brendon had washed his hair for him. Ryan didn’t mind. He liked the way Brendon’s hands felt on his face; rough fingertips dragging over sensitive skin. It was even better now that they were sitting together in the tub. Better when he could feel the heat of Brendon’s legs thrown over his own and Brendon’s breath on his face. 

“Do you really want me to tell you about queer sex?” Brendon asked as he massaged Ryan’s scalp. 

“Well… I don’t want a lesson on it,” Ryan returned, and Brendon scoffed, pushing Ryan’s hair away from his face. Ryan closed his eyes so soap didn’t get into them. “But can… Eric mentioned, uhm, _riding_?”

“You’re definitely not allowed to talk to him anymore.” Brendon stroked at the side of Ryan’s face, brushing his thumb across his jaw before getting the mug full of water again. “Riding would be when you… It would be you and me. And you’d be lying on the bed, right? And I would sit on top of you. On your prick. And I would ride you out. I’d fuck myself down on top of you. Put my hands on your chest and move myself up and down on your prick. Does that make sense?”

Ryan’s dick that was situated beneath Brendon's body thought it made sense. He hoped Brendon didn't notice that and he felt out of breath as he mumbled, “Yeah…” 

He allowed his mind to wander for a minute. Wander to a situation where he and Brendon were in bed together again. It hadn't really occurred to him that he would get to have sex with Brendon again. But there wasn't a war for him to run off to, he supposed. There was only Brendon and he and there didn't need to be an end any time soon. He smiled to himself. 

“When you come back from Vegas, we can do that. I’d like to do that,” Brendon said and when he dumped water over Ryan’s head, it got in his ears and soap ran down the front of his face. He must have forgotten to lean back. His mind had been in other places.

Brendon put a hand over Ryan’s eyes to push his head back himself, leaving Ryan’s neck exposed, and dumped another cup of water on his hand and down through Ryan’s hair. Soapy water dripped down Ryan’s back. 

“What are you gonna do while I’m in Vegas?” Ryan asked quietly, swallowing heavily.

Brendon brushed Ryan’s hair out with his fingers before moving away to retrieve the conditioner. His voice was joking, “Jack off.”

Ryan pushed him in the chest and Brendon laughed with him. Ryan said, “I’m serious now. I mean while I’m at the funeral.”

“Sing,” Brendon answered after a thought. “Sing at The Church and drink a Tom Collins and bother Jon Walker and tell Eric not to talk to you anymore about queer sex.”

Ryan smiled at him. 

“Maybe I’ll play a game or two of Rummy with them. Write a new song. Who knows?” Brendon said. He sounded sad all of a sudden. No more teasing smiles. He was sad as he put conditioner in his hand and reached out to Ryan, neglecting to do his own hair first. He started to run the new lotion through Ryan’s hair. “And you? What does Vegas have in store?”

“Other than the funeral?” Ryan asked. “I guess uh… I guess I’ll see Z. Talk with her and Spencer. See when they’re getting married.”

“They’re getting married?” Brendon interrupted, brows raised, and his fingers paused in Ryan’s hair. 

“They will,” Ryan answered. “Eventually. I think they work well enough together. I think she plans to marry him. I’ll be a flower girl.”

Brendon nodded to himself, collecting the information with a fond smile, and went back to washing Ryan’s hair. 

“And I’ll uh—I’ll stay in my house. Look around for someone to buy it. See what the old man left for me.” Ryan hoped that his father would give him his yo-yo back. “And I’ll go to the funeral.”

“Or,” Brendon started. “As Dan would say—”

“I’ll go to my party then,” Ryan obliged. “And… I’ll watch them put him in the ground. Say my goodbyes, I guess… Slap the tomb, and I’ll leave.”

Brendon was watching him from the corner of his black eyes as he dipped the mug into the water and collected more to dump on Ryan’s hair. “That’s it?”

Ryan shrugged and leaned his head back for Brendon to pour water on him. “All I have planned.” 

Brendon stroked the remaining conditioner out of Ryan’s hair. “There isn’t anything else about Vegas worth seeing? Nothing but the graveyard?”

Brendon had abandoned the mug at the bottom of the tub between them and he was staring at Ryan. Dismal black eyes. 

Ryan took the opportunity of Brendon’s stillness to take the conditioner and put it into his own hand. Beckoned Brendon to him and Brendon reluctantly bent his head forward so Ryan could put conditioner over the black pelt. 

“If I were going sightseeing, Vegas wouldn’t be the place I’d go,” Ryan muttered as he soothed Brendon’s short hair back; scratching his fingernails against Brendon’s skin. Brendon kept his eyes closed. 

Ryan thought about Las Vegas, Nevada. Thought about his father’s falling apart house that he hated and his own piece of shit house that he only loved when Z loved him. Thought about the diner Spencer worked at and the bars his father liked to attend. Thought about the nearly finished strip and how brilliant the lights would be. How much he had wanted to take Z there. 

“The strip might be done now,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose I’ll go down there.”

“The strip?” Brendon asked. 

“Yeah.” Ryan retrieved the full mug from the bottom of the tub. “All these tall buildings and places to waste your money and places to lose it. Places to get drunk and make bad decisions. But I think it’ll be pretty. A bunch of fancy lights that might put Nancy to shame.”

“I liked the lights in Nancy,” Brendon said quietly as he bent his head back for Ryan to empty the cup on him and his shiny hair. “Real pretty.”

“Uh huh,” Ryan agreed. “But I think the strip’ll be pretty too. But I don’t really think I’ll go down there to see it.”

“Why not?” Brendon asked, blinking water out of his eyes as he straightened up. 

“Not the type of thing you do alone,” Ryan returned. He couldn’t help sounding depressing. Hadn’t meant to. “When Z and I were together, I always thought about taking her to see it. But uh… it’s not the type of thing I want to do alone.”

Brendon was quiet. He licked his full, pink lips. Water was dripping down his face in slow rain drops and looked like dew resting on his shoulders. Like the freckles that were only noticeable when Ryan was looking. And he was looking. He was always looking. 

Brendon’s hair had been pushed back by Ryan’s fingers and there was no more soap in it and he was practically sitting on top of Ryan, his thighs over top of Ryan’s and his eyes were so round; fixed on Ryan and Ryan only. 

The bathroom door was closed and it was only them. Just the two of them, faggots in a bathtub, sitting on one another with clean hair, trying to wash the smell of each other off their skin. 

And in that moment, with Brendon staring at him, it felt like the world spun for the two of them alone. 

“I’d like to take you,” Ryan said aloud. 

“What?” Brendon asked. “To the strip?”

“Yeah,” Ryan answered. “To see all the lights. Just like Nancy. I’d want you to see it with me.”

Brendon blinked a few times. Nodded. “Yeah. I think I’d like to see them.”

“Okay.” Ryan nodded. It was clicking. It was clicking into place. The world was spinning for them. Only them. “So, you’ll go with me?”

Brendon immediately looked astounded. His voice was barely above a whisper, “What?” 

“Come with me to Vegas,” Ryan said with more conviction. More sure of himself and he smiled. “Come with me to Las Vegas. I’ll pay for your train ticket and everything. Come with me to Vegas and we can stay in my house there. Just the two of us, we can stay there for a week or two. And once I’ve sold the house, we’ll have the money to go see Mike Naran in Shelton, Connecticut.”

He stared at Brendon expectantly and Brendon only stared back. Black eyes wide as saucers. His mouth had fallen open. He tried to speak, “I—”

“And then, if you wanna come back here, we can,” Ryan added hurriedly. “We can if you want. Wherever you wanna go from there, Bren, is where we’ll go. Wherever in the world you wanna go; I’ll take you.”

Brendon didn’t say anything. He fumbled to find words. “You and me? You want… you want to take me to Vegas?”

“Yes. Yeah, of course I do,” Ryan insisted and was holding onto Brendon’s thighs across his own in the bathtub that shouldn’t fit two men. “I want to show you the strip and I want you to be in my house and I want to sleep in bed with you and learn how to make better tea for you and take more baths with you.”

Brendon’s laugh was shaky. 

“What do you want?” Ryan asked. “Whatever you want, Bren. What is it?”

Brendon shook his head. Bewilderment. His smile was stretching across his face and one of his eyes squinted more than the other. He said, “I want to kiss you.” 

And he did. Sweet like sugar with Ryan’s hands resting on his thighs and Brendon’s wet hands finding the sides of Ryan’s neck. His lips were sensitive and warm, clean water dripping off them, and he was smiling almost too wide to be kissing someone and Ryan was smiling too. 

Their lips separated and their heads stayed together, noses pressed against one another and Brendon was holding tight to Ryan’s neck. 

“I love you,” Brendon said. Quiet. As quiet as it could have been and Ryan’s heart rate picked up. 

“Me too,” he said and kissed Brendon quickly. He asked into Brendon’s smile, “Is that a yes? Will you go to Vegas with me?”

“Yes,” Brendon breathed in a laugh. “Yes, it’s a yes. I will.”

And Ryan couldn’t think of anything to do besides kiss him again. Brendon was going to Las Vegas with him. Brendon was going to go with him to Vegas. Brendon was his. And there wasn’t any awkward silences or fearful wondering. There wasn’t a fear of what would happen next. It was one fluid moment and Ryan didn’t care what would happen after.

In that moment, the world spun for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	34. Don't Call Me Dixie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! Here! This is fucking late! It's also long as hell! 12,500 words!

Brendon didn’t exactly remember being hit in the head with a rock when he was in France. He remembered a pressure, an abrupt smack to his eyebrow—as if someone had slapped him across the face—and thinking to himself, _damn, I’ve been shot_. 

Because that’s all he thought it could be. He'd only been in France for about three months at that point. Barely been in war at all. Only in combat twice. And now, the third time, he was getting shot at. When he felt a pressure to his head, why wouldn’t he think he had been shot? That was the only explanation.

It never occurred to him it was a broken rock piece, knocked up in the chaos. That had never seemed like something that would happen in war. It was all bombs and planes and bullets, wasn’t it? Rocks were too mundane. No one got hit by rocks in war. 

He didn’t remember much after being ‘shot’ in the face either. Didn’t remember falling to the ground or passing out. He thought he would at least remember it all going black. But nothing. Not even a flash in his memory. It was simply an absence of anything at all. 

He did vaguely remember sitting on the corner of a field with a fellow soldier at his side—dressed in the same green ensemble as he was, covered in dirt with a helmet sat lopsided on his tangled mop of brown hair—pressing a torn sleeve to Brendon’s forehead until someone professional could attend to him later. Until he could get back to the medical tent and they could stitch him up properly. 

The image had been blurry but his mind had picked out the shiny whiskey-colored eyes that were looking him over, the heat of another body on top of his leg as the man kneeled on him, shoving a dirty cloth in his face and repeating over and over, a voice muffled by gunshots and shouting, “Urie? _Urie_? Listen to me. Open your eyes, dammit. Urie.”

He couldn’t pick out who the person was then. Couldn’t pick out anything but the warm blood running down his face, over his eye, and clumping his eyelashes together, gluing it shut. That and the persistent voice in his ear and the sleeve to his eyebrow and the heat in his lap.

It might have been nice if he didn’t think he had been shot. 

However, Brendon _did_ vividly remember waking up in the medical tent on a stiff cot sometime later with a pulsing headache and Dan Pawlovich sitting on the bed beside him, atop the folded covers, peering over at him lazily and saying, “Oh, look at that. You’re alive. Glory day.”

Maybe, just a tiny bit, like he cared. 

And Brendon—a man of twenty-one who only went to war to die—had said, “I am? Goddamn.”

Dan had explained the situation to him. Told him that some idiot threw a grenade—no idea where it would go; a greenie—and it blew up a cluster of rocks nearby. Hit several people, cutting open sleeves and pant legs and slicing arms and apparently, one guy got his nose broken. Poor bastard, Dan had called him. Poor, dumb bastard. 

“You’re the only one who went down though,” Dan told him, picking at his nails. “At least he kept upright. Kept firing. What? One little stone to the melon and you’re gone? Gotta be a bigger man than that, Urie, if you’re gonna make it.”

Brendon had blinked a few times, tried to will away his head with a heartbeat, and said, “Right. I’ll try. Next time I’ll see the rock coming.”

Dan had stood then with a roll of his eyes, ready to leave Brendon behind, before he turned and said, “Don’t worry, by the way; I’ll let Ross know you’re okay.”

Brendon repeated, puzzled, to be sure he had heard the name right, “Ross?”

“Yeah,” Dan answered. “George Ross. The idiot that wrapped your head with a sleeve. Been bitchin’ for the past hour about you.” 

Dan sneered at Brendon’s expression. 

“I think the kid likes you.” He gave Brendon a mock salute. “Next time you’re in combat? Try to fucking duck. A bullet won’t be that nice to you.”

And Dan Pawlovich had left Brendon Urie alone in the medical tent with a pounding headache and the devastating realization that he hadn’t been shot. He was alive. Goddamnit. Plans foiled yet again. 

But it had also made him think about George Ross. Made him interested, to say the least. He’d had a few conversations with the guy at that point. Marched beside George Ross and made a few tactless jokes that Ross had snorted at. Nothing too vulgar but nothing too funny either. Nothing to really make Ross laugh. 

Did the guy laugh at all? Brendon didn’t know. Maybe not. Or maybe Brendon Urie just didn’t know how to tell a good joke. 

George Ross was just a guy. Just another guy. Was his name even George? Or did he go by something else? Brendon couldn’t remember. His head hurt too much. It was only a few days later that he heard the guy being saught out. 

Ryan, they said. 

That’s what he liked being called. 

_Ryan_. 

Brendon could thank him for saving his life, but Ryan hadn’t really. Hadn’t saved his life. Just held a ripped sleeve to his forehead to stop the bleeding. If anything, Ryan had put them further in harm's way by abandoning his gun to help Brendon’s stupid ass. 

Should have just let him drop. Would have been better for everyone. 

Goddammit, why hadn’t Ryan Ross let him die? Brendon didn’t know. But he kept doing it. Saving Brendon. Just couldn’t seem to stop himself. 

The next time Ryan didn’t let him die, Brendon remembered in excruciating detail. 

Another time, Ryan Ross hadn’t let him die—an asshole move—was in a town outside of Metz. Bombs were a real bitch. Leveled the entire place. Not unlike Christmas of ‘44 when Brendon sat under a dilapidated house and smoked a soggy cigarette with Ryan Ross at his side. 

This was far before that though, barely under a year in France for the two of them. And Ryan wasn’t ‘George Ross’ anymore. He wasn’t just a fella Brendon marched beside from time to time. He was a friend and he had a shy smile and he had seen Brendon Urie kill a man. He was nothing but Ryan. 

Ryan Ross, who sat beside Brendon in a town in France leveled by a bomb and hurriedly wrapped a proper bandage around Brendon’s bloody hand. At least he had improved from the dusty sleeve.

“Are you an idiot?” Ryan had asked him urgently, soaking up blood with the white fabric. It wasn’t a sleeve; Brendon didn’t remember what it was exactly. Just a chunk of bandage Ryan had been carrying around in his pack. The pack that was thrown down and forgotten beside him, his forgotten helmet sitting atop it. 

Brendon was perched on the edge of a pile of wood—what used to be the side of a house—one arm hanging over his bent knees and the other outstretched for Ryan to fiddle with. He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Ryan. I’m an idiot.”

“I’m serious,” Ryan snapped, sounding as much, digging his fingers into Brendon’s wrist to hold him stationary. “What were you thinking? I mean, be honest. What were you thinking?”

“Well, _Mother_ ,” Brendon retorted bitterly. “I was thinking I’d like to pet a dog.”

Ryan looked down, shaking his head back and forth. He muttered, “I told you not to touch it.”

“I know you told me not to touch it.”

“Why did you touch it?” Ryan groaned, holding the cloth tight to Brendon’s left hand where the dog had bitten him. It wasn’t such a bad mark; it would leave a scar but not one that was too big. It was only the side of his hand. The dog should have gone for his fingers. Now that would have been a story worth telling. 

Right then Brendon was just the idiot who tried to pet a stray dog in a town outside of Metz, France and got bit. It wasn’t even a big dog. Some Jack Russell type with a yappy bark and beady eyes. Little thing with brown and white patches. It had been cute. Brendon should have been allowed to pet a stray dog in France. But, of course, Ryan had been right like he always was. Brendon shouldn’t have touched it. 

“Seemed the thing to do,” Brendon answered, uninterested, and examined the nails of his good hand. There was dirt beneath them. Some blood too, if he was inspecting. It didn’t matter. His other hand was bloodier. 

He wiped it on his pants. 

He only had three wedding rings at that point in France. One on his index, one on his ring finger, and one on the other hand. The one the dog bit. 

One ring that said _Your Heart is Mine_ on the inside and two others that were boring. 

The dog should have gone for the ring. 

“I can’t believe you got bit by a dog,” Ryan muttered, awed. “Come to France, shoot some guys, and you get bit by a fucking dog. Brendon Urie. Taken down by a dog before a man.”

Brendon laughed. Now _that_ was a good joke. Irony was always clever. He asked, because it was hilarious actually, “Wouldn’t it be great if I died this way? Come to France, expecting to be shot—all these guys around us going down like Beckett—and then I get bit by some dumb dog and die from infection. It’d be funny, alright. A hell of a thing.”

“You’re not gonna die,” Ryan said but the humor was gone. Brendon had ruined the joke. “It’s just a scratch.”

“It’ll be a neat scar though,” Brendon huffed, admiring where blood had soaked through the bandage Ryan was applying. That Jack Russell had packed one hell of a punch for something so tiny. Brendon could learn a thing or two from a Jack Russell Terrier in Metz.

“Yeah. Ladies’ll go mad for it,” Ryan replied. Brendon had snorted a laugh; one he hoped didn’t sound as awkward as if felt to give. He doubted the men back in Clearfield would care too much about dog bites. “Ladies love idiots who get bit by dogs before bullets.”

“How long ‘till it heals, Dr. Ross?” Brendon asked, hoping to change the subject from women. It wasn’t something he was well versed in.

“Don’t know,” Ryan answered. “A lifetime.”

Brendon raised a brow. “I guess I’ll ask when we set up for the night and I can get a professional to look at it.”

“I’m plenty professional,” Ryan retorted and he started to stand, abandoning Brendon’s hand which had been wrapped in an ugly, faded bandage. The blood shone cherry red as it drenched through. 

Brendon needed to seek out someone who actually knew how to treat a wound. It would be a real bitch if he bled out through a dog bite. 

“Hey,” Ryan said and he bobbed his head to where their fellow soldiers had disappeared along the path. “What happened to leave no man behind?”

Brendon stood, holding his arm and his bloody hand to his middle, slinging his pack over the opposite shoulder with his good hand. “Guess they don’t have any protocol for dog bites.”

Ryan started to lead the way back to the path and away from the broken down house in Metz where a dog bit Brendon Urie on the hand. All he had wanted was to pet it. Could he really be blamed for that? All he wanted was to pet a dog. That wasn’t so wrong.

Ryan Ross picked his way through broken ground and Brendon followed suit, his pack weighing him down more on one side than the other, a bloody hand held to his stomach, and his helmet sitting askew on his head. 

“This right here,” Ryan said, very professionally. “Is why we don’t break formation.”

“I saw a dog,” Brendon replied. “And you expected me to stay in line?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Ryan stressed and Brendon laughed at the desperate tone. “That’s exactly what I expected you to do.”

“I like dogs,” Brendon said, an attempt at an excuse. 

“Seems to me you like being bitten by them.”

“I didn’t know he was going to bite me,” Brendon protested. “He seemed nice enough from a glance.”

Ryan grimaced. “You can’t go around petting stray dogs in France.”

“I know that _now_.”

Ryan clipped the strap of his helmet beneath his chin and shifted his pack. Brendon had since noticed the limp Ryan sported when he walked. The way he tilted more to one side than the other. Brendon hadn’t ever asked about the limp, but he wanted to. Eventually, he figured he would. 

Someday in Clearfield when Ryan Ross sat on his couch littered with bruises his dad gave him; nothing but breakable. Someday. 

“I used to have a dog,” Brendon spoke aloud. Loud enough the entire town that had been blown to nothing could hear it. All those ghosts could hear his story clear as day. He wondered if any of them would bother to listen. 

Ryan sent a look over his shoulder. He said, emotionless, “Okay.”

“Her name was Penny,” Brendon told him even though it didn’t really matter. It had been years since Penny ran away. Years and years. She was just a dog. She didn’t matter anymore. But Brendon found himself wanting to talk about it. Best member of his family. The one he had loved the most. 

“What type of dog was she?” Ryan asked, keeping his eyes forward, seeking out where the rest of their squad had gone. 

Brendon felt sort of bad for dragging Ryan out to pet a dog. If he’d known they would get lost, he wouldn’t have broken formation. 

That wasn't true, actually; he really wanted to pet that dog. 

“Some terrier,” Brendon explained. “Black and white. Squashed face, you know? Darling thing.”

Ryan nodded to himself. “You still have her?”

“No,” Brendon answered. “Ran away when I was eight.”

“Sorry,” Ryan said and it was obvious he didn’t know what else he was really meant to say. He waited for a moment to ask, “Why’d she run away?”

“Don’t know,” Brendon replied. 

He sent a look around the destroyed town in France. The shattered windows and the ash streaks and the dust that floated in front of their faces. Smelled the death in the air. Wondered if the ghosts would come by to say hello. If they cared at all. What it was like to die. Wondered if he really wanted to after all. 

He let out a mournful hum. “Better places to be I guess.”

Ryan hadn’t said anything to that. Only led him back to the pack in quiet, limping and nodding his head all the way. They had gotten someone who actually knew how to rebandage Brendon’s hand. But that didn’t change the fact that it was Ryan Ross who sat with him after he was bitten by a dog. 

Didn’t change the fact that it was Ryan Ross who pressed a cloth to his hand and tried to stop the bleeding. Twice. It was Ryan Ross that kept trying to save him when he kept trying to die. 

And again. Now again, in Clearfield, Utah in a bathtub that wasn’t meant for two people—much less two men—Ryan was trying to save him again. 

It was different than Dallon thought. Different than what Dallon thought saving someone was. 

_You were falling apart, tearing open. And I thought yes. Brilliant, yes. I can save him. I can save him,_ Dallon had said to him.

That wasn’t saving someone because you wanted them to be saved. That was saving so you could stake a claim. _I saved you. You owe me now because of it. You fucking owe me_. Dallon Weekes only wanted to save Brendon so he could have him. 

And Brendon resented him for it. 

Ryan Ross saved Brendon far before he had him. 

Sometimes, Brendon had to seriously wonder if Ryan was real. 

The man sitting behind him in the tub, sunk down so the water came to his shoulders, his knees bent because he couldn’t fit in the tub, and Brendon sitting between his legs, back to Ryan’s front and Ryan’s arms wrapped around his middle. The warmth that his body provided in water that had since turned cold. 

Ryan, who kept dropping feather-light kisses to Brendon’s shoulders and neck. Light enough that they barely felt like another person. Barely felt like anything at all. Merely ghosts from France, dropping by to say hello after a long time. 

How could that man be real?

Brendon worked his hand into Ryan’s, threading their fingers together. Ryan didn’t seem to even think about protesting to it, holding tight to Brendon’s hand with his own. Brendon’s other hand sat in the water, tossed over his leg. 

In a dream world, he would invest in a larger tub for Ryan and him. Something where they could both spread out on one another. Really take advantage of it. But perhaps the confinement and intimacy of this was better. The way that Brendon couldn’t move anywhere without being right on top of another body. Their skin stuck together. Maybe the tiny tub was perfect. But in a dream world, Brendon would get a bigger one. 

In a dream world, Brendon Urie would do a lot of things. 

“Okay,” Brendon said as Ryan kept pecking those ghost kisses to his shoulder. “Tell me about your house.”

“Piece of shit,” Ryan answered against Brendon’s skin. 

“How shit?” Brendon asked, rubbing a thumb against Ryan’s hand. He leaned further back into Ryan’s touch, feeling the way Ryan’s body curled around him. 

Ryan's next kiss landed on the base of Brendon’s neck. “Scale of one to ten?”

“Sounds good to me.” Brendon tilted his head to the side so Ryan could kiss up his exposed neck sparingly. Brendon closed his eyes and smiled to himself. Life didn’t get better than kisses in a bathtub not meant for two men. Nothing felt more right than doing the wrong thing. 

“Ten,” Ryan decided.

Brendon snorted and shifted one of his legs, trying to get more comfortable, sliding down Ryan’s chest an inch. Leaned his head back onto Ryan’s shoulder so his neck was easier to get to. Ryan took the invitation eagerly, mouthing at the skin all too delicate. 

For a man not well versed in sex, he certainly knew how to plant a kiss. 

Speaking of sex, Brendon needed to have a conversation with one Eric Ronick about what he was allowed to say to Ryan Ross. What he was allowed to give away. If anyone was going to show Ryan Ross the intricacies of gay sex, it better damn well be Brendon. Oh, the things he could show Ryan. 

He smiled faintly, thinking about Ryan Ross’s fear-filled eyes when he saw a bottle of Pompeian oil. 

Oh, the things he could show to that boy. 

“How’s the bed?” Brendon asked, his mind down the gutter. 

“A brick,” Ryan informed and his tongue flicked out to drag over Brendon’s throat. Who the hell did that boy think he was? If Brendon were in an altered mood, one less tragic than current, this interaction would be going much differently. 

There wasn’t anything overtly sexual about the way Ryan kissed him. Wasn’t any sort of possessive; _kiss me now, turn and kiss me. Feel me. Feel me_. 

There was only a subtle, gently put, _I want to touch you. I want to feel you and be felt by you and make you feel loved_. And, God, Brendon felt loved. Did he ever. More than he ever had in his life.

He felt fucking ravished.

“Maybe you can fuck me on the floor,” Brendon proposed without thinking about it. Just sort of came out. Spilled from his mouth like a confession.

Ryan choked, pausing his pursuit up Brendon’s neck and Brendon had to laugh. That boy. That fucking boy. He was pure innocence wrapped up in a person. Was Brendon taking advantage of it? Of Ryan? He worried. Worried he was going to waste that ignorance. It wasn't something to be taken for granted. Ryan wasn't. 

“I’m kidding.”

“No,” Ryan said and he kissed Brendon’s neck again without waiting; right back to where he had begun. “You’re not.”

“You’re right.” Brendon smiled, pleased with himself. “I’m not.”

Ryan shook his head, chuckling, and Brendon felt the way it vibrated against his neck, Ryan’s chest on his spine, flexing as he laughed. What a beautiful thing that was. What a beautiful thing _he_ was. All innocence and whiskey eyes.

“You only have the one bedroom?” Brendon asked. 

“Uh-huh,” Ryan answered and bumped his nose against Brendon’s neck. “Only mine.”

Brendon’s smile turned to a small frown. “I might have to buy a hotel room then. I can’t stay with you if there’s only one room. They might—”

“I’ll tell them you’re sleeping on the floor,” Ryan said indubitably. 

He was fiddling consistently with Brendon’s fingers, massaging his hand and the indentions of the dog bite. The skin tingled wherever he did. As though Brendon had goosebumps beneath the surface, spreading through his blood and into his chest and stomach. Into the grimace that was steadily crossing his face. 

“You can bring your bag,” Ryan went on and he didn’t look at Brendon’s face. Focused on his throat and his jugular when he swallowed. Like he was an animal looking for the right place to bite. Like a dog in Metz. “We’ll lay out your poncho out on the couch in the living room; tell them you’re sleeping there. Say you’re a war boy; don’t have enough money for a hotel room. It’s not all that wrong.”

Brendon sighed. “I can afford a hotel room, Ry.”

“They don’t need to know that.” Ryan’s breath was hot on his throat. 

Brendon wished the goosebumps would stop spreading through his body. They were betraying his mind. Making it hard to think straight. “Becoming quite the liar now, aren’t you, Ryan Ross?”

“Not… _lying_ exactly,” Ryan protested. He sounded guilty and Brendon wished he hadn’t said anything. Or perhaps that he had found a way to say it differently. “Shifting the truth s’all. Making it more accommodating, you know? Trying to make it fit better.”

“I like your definition of lying,” Brendon returned.

Ryan didn’t say anything to that, occupying his mouth with pressing his tongue to the underside of Brendon’s jaw. _Honestly_ , who did he think he was? Brendon wondered if Ryan did all this with Z. What Z would think of Brendon when he met her. He would be meeting Z, wouldn’t he? He would have to. Did he want to? Want to look her in the eyes and know they loved the same person?

He had questions for her about it. About loving Ryan. 

Questions such as, _when did you know Ryan loved you? How did he show it? How did he kiss you?_

_Did you go mad for his taste; all that sugar? The way his tongue feels on your skin? How did he touch you? How did he have sex with you? Was it really love? What’s your definition? Was he nervous the first time? Was he quiet? Has he always been this way? So sweet?_

_Did you ever worry you didn’t deserve it?_

Ryan pressed his nose to Brendon’s hair and mouthed at the base of his ear, where his skin was sensitive. Brendon let him for a second, the sensation of his wet mouth a contrast to the cold water that had dried there. And then, almost suddenly, Ryan sucked at the flesh, open-mouthed, and his lips were far too inviting. 

He did it again, harder, and it elicited a small groan from the back of Brendon’s throat as he squirmed away from the heat of Ryan’s tongue.

“Can’t do that,” Brendon mumbled in a lowered voice, as he stared Ryan down, keeping his face at a distance. Away from temptation.

Ryan furrowed his brows and Brendon instantly averted his eyes, trailing them to their interlocked hands in his lap, watching their fingers move together. How Ryan kept playing with the digits, rubbing his thumb over knuckles and the crescent of a dog bite. Over and over again across the scar as if it mattered. Come together, come apart; the softness of Ryan’s skin just as welcoming each time. 

“Do what?” Ryan entreated, feigning naivety, as he moved to rest his chin on Brendon’s shoulder, hooking it into the corner of his neck. His cheek was flush with Brendon’s ear and the world was silent on the right side. 

“You’re gonna leave a mark if you keep doing that,” Brendon replied gently—hoping he sounded gentle anyway—smoothing Ryan’s fingers over with his own. They bent beautifully, curved and slim. Brendon hoped he didn’t sound too serious. He didn’t mean to. Hadn’t meant to make a good time a bad one or a comical tone serious. “Can’t do that.” 

Ryan was quiet for a moment, simply letting Brendon play with his hands and keeping his chin hooked over Brendon’s shoulder. Brendon, without really thinking about it, leaned to the side against Ryan’s hair, turning his head a fraction to kiss Ryan’s temple. Ryan stiffened at the touch for a second before he relaxed.

“You know that, don’t you?” Brendon kept his voice in a hush against Ryan’s hair. “Can’t leave marks. Too obvious.”

Ryan nodded, forcing Brendon to move his mouth away an inch, and he moved back to kiss Brendon’s shoulder once. One, clean kiss that felt a little too fragile to actually be good. Much too subdued. 

“We’ve gotta be careful about this, Ryan,” Brendon reminded. “Especially if I’m going with you to Vegas. Especially if you expect us to—If I’m going to stay in the house with you. They’re going to—Ryan, we can’t be obvious. This is a big deal.” 

Ryan sounded dejected. “I know it’s a big deal.”

“No one gets to know,” Brendon said seriously. “No one can. Not Z. Not Spencer. Not a soul.”

Ryan put his forehead against Brendon’s back. He sounded small. “I _know_.”

Brendon used the hand not holding Ryan’s to reach back into Ryan’s wet hair and mindlessly brush through it with his fingers. He tried not to smile too much when Ryan leaned into the touch. A new question for Z; _was he always this willing? Did you take advantage of how good he was to you?_

The thought displeased him. The thought of someone kissing Ryan and not meaning it. Kissing just to kiss him. Just for the heat of his mouth on theirs.

Some people in the world—Brendon was one of them—could waste kisses. Could have kisses be wasted on them. Could be kissed by anyone and have it not matter how they felt. But Ryan. Ryan Ross? 

You couldn’t just kiss that boy and not mean it. 

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Ryan muttered, his eyes closed as he leaned his head into Brendon’s hand. “I’m not completely moronic.”

“Just checking,” Brendon teased and Ryan snorted. 

“Besides, Z thinks I’m in love with a girl,” he added.

Brendon blinked in surprise and he couldn’t help turning in surprise to look at Ryan, holding him by the hair. Their faces rested a few inches apart. Ryan looked back, similarly shocked at the sudden jolt.

“Z thinks—” Brendon blinked a few times. “What made Z think you’re in love with a girl?”

Ryan appeared sheepish. “Because I told her I was.”

Brendon couldn’t believe it. Ryan Ross was turning into a downright liar. Brendon was a bad influence, wasn’t he? His lips curled up at the corners. “Who’s the girl?”

Ryan tilted his head. His expression said it should be obvious. “You, Bren. _You’re_ the girl.”

Brendon coughed. “I’m not the girl.”

“Aren’t you?” Ryan’s smile turned smug. 

“I’m not.” Brendon glared at him but it was half-hearted. He couldn’t help being curious. It was only in his nature. “What’d you tell her about me?” 

Ryan glanced away, tittering to himself timidly. Seemed he had a thing or two to hide. But he couldn’t lie to Brendon. Not even if he tried. Brendon would be able to tell. He bet he would. “Uh… I—”

“What’s my name?” Brendon grinned how a snake would before it swallowed a mouse. 

“Brenda,” Ryan answered reluctantly. 

Brendon’s jaw dropped. “ _Brenda!_ That’s _it_? You couldn’t think of anything better than that?”

“I panicked!” Ryan shot back, his eyes looking as much. “I didn’t want to lie to her but—I told her ‘Brenda’ and said the two of you are siblings. So—if she asks—I’m in love with your sister, Brenda.” 

“My sister?” Brendon repeated, keeping his voice low. “My best friend from war, after my own sister? Ryan, I think I need to have a talk with you.”

“A talk?” Ryan echoed. 

“Oh, definitely,” Brendon replied, self-satisfied. “I mean that’s my _sister_ we’re talking about. I have to give you that old uh, brother’s sit down, you know? That all the brothers do. All that; don’t hurt her, she’s a classy lady—Promise to treat her nicely?”

Ryan laughed with his eyes closed and Brendon smiled at him as Ryan said, “I promise. Cross my heart.” 

“She’s a fairly rowdy dame, my sister,” Brendon carried on. Raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Think you can keep a handle on her?” 

Ryan’s cheeks tinted red and he focused his eyes away from Brendon’s face. Sounded young when he spoke. “I think I can manage.” 

“That’s what I like to hear.” Brendon leaned forward, his hand resting on the back of Ryan’s head, knotted in clean curls, and he dragged Ryan towards him for a kiss. 

The angle was off; the way he had to turn his head and press further back into Ryan’s chest, but he couldn’t complain. Couldn’t complain when Ryan’s lips met his. Not a thing in the world to be upset about.

The water had dried from Ryan’s face and his lips felt soft, tasted pure and polished with soap and bathwater, agreeable against Brendon’s mouth. Obliging to the way Brendon moved his head by clutching his hair in a fistful. 

Ryan’s hand kept a steadfast grip on Brendon’s, thumb over the dog bite, and his other hand skated up Brendon’s side and onto the back of his neck, holding to the skin with dripping wet fingertips. Water ran between Brendon’s shoulder blades and down his spine. 

Ryan didn’t waste any time opening his mouth for Brendon, tipping wherever Brendon’s hand in his hair directed. Brendon smiled as he kissed him. No rush. No hurried, jerky actions. No need to do such. Only a want to be close to one another. To hold him close. A want to touch Ryan, feel his wet fingertips on Brendon's neck and his hand around Brendon’s on a dog bite that didn't matter and Ryan’s shiny, sopping hair closed in his fist. 

Z must have taken advantage. Surely. The way Ryan bent so willingly to touch. Accommodated so precisely and smiled into kisses and breathed sharply through his nose. She had to have. 

Because—all at the same time—Brendon wanted to take advantage of that kindness, to kiss Ryan and open him up until he was breathless and gasping. And the other part wanted to kiss him slowly, to hold him and caress him and cherish the sweetness and never let him go. 

Brendon laid a more idle, clement kiss to Ryan’s mouth before he asked, muted, “Do you pop spoonfuls of sugar when I’m not looking?”

Ryan’s laugh was of surprise, and his cheeks kept getting pinker as he smiled in a daze, scratching his short fingernails against the nape of Brendon’s neck. Brendon couldn’t help but twitch at the sensation, body curving against Ryan’s chest. “Every time you turn your back.”

Brendon chuckled, out of breath and it sounded too much like a gasp—perhaps he was the one who was being taken advantage of—and said, “I should have known. Goddamn dixie boy.”

Ryan raised a brow. “Never call me ‘dixie boy’.”

“What?” Brendon questioned, smirking. “You don’t like it? My dixie boy. I think it’s got a nice ring to it. Pretty, maybe. Fits you.” 

“I hate it.” Ryan shook his head but he was smiling and his fingers were still stroking a casual pattern on Brendon’s neck and the dog-bite on his hand. “And it is _not_ pretty.”

“Oh, don’t be that way.” Brendon grinned as Ryan avoided his gaze. Leaned in, all too cocky, to press his nose into Ryan’s hair. “C’mere, Dixie Boy, let me taste you.”

“Alright—” Ryan protested and he pulled his hands off of Brendon, off his neck and his dog-bite, and shoved him away playfully in the tub. Water sloshed at the sides. “Quit that right now.” 

Brendon opened his mouth to complain at the loss of heat but before he could, Ryan splashed water up at him and the cold liquid hit him in the neck and chin and Brendon yelped, moving away to the side of the tub. “Hey!”

“That’s what you get.” Ryan brandished a finger and Brendon felt him move, pulling his legs from Brendon’s side and pushing Brendon off him. “Don’t call me Dixie Boy.”

Brendon made a whine of complaint as Ryan retracted from the embrace, all warmth lost entirely, and the cold water rushed in around him, causing him to shiver involuntarily. 

Ryan stood, stepping out over the side of the tub, dripping water fantastically down and off his slender form and Brendon had to watch him walk across the bathroom without a backward glance, bending to get a towel from beneath the sink. 

He took the cloth, straightening up as he spun it around his waist, body vanishing behind the white fabric and what a shame that was. What a goddamn shame. 

“Here.” Ryan collected another towel with his hand and walked over to where Brendon was sitting in the tub, alone, knees bent and body on exhibition. Tempting. Ryan looked him over and smiled. “Let’s get dressed.”

Apparently, not tempting enough. 

Brendon sighed as he stood, the water rolling down his body as he did so, across the front of his chest, down his naval and his dick. Ryan watched the water droplets run with a fascination. Brendon didn’t say anything aloud, but he encouraged Ryan to stare at him. 

Ryan snapped his gaze up. Held the towel out to Brendon. Said through a grin, “Be modest.”

Brendon took the towel from him and wrapped it around his hips, letting it hang slightly lower than strictly necessary and Ryan could obviously tell, letting out a tiny snort as he pulled the drain in the tub, collecting the empty tea mug. 

“I’ll help you to—” Brendon started, watching as Ryan stooped to collect their discarded clothes but Ryan shook his head abruptly. 

“No; I’m good.” Ryan hoisted them up into his arms. “Go get some clean clothes on, Bren. Don't bother.”

Brendon raised his brows knowingly. “Ryan, you can’t hold all that. You’re going to drop your towel.”

“Bren,” Ryan warned. “If you pull my towel down, I swear—”

“I won’t!” Brendon laughed, raising his hands in surrender and his own towel slacked. “I won’t; I promise. But let me carry something for you.”

Reluctantly, Ryan handed over a portion of the clothes and Brendon smiled his thanks, accepting them easily. 

“My building has a washing machine on the ground floor,” Brendon said conversationally, in case Ryan didn’t know, walking into the living room with Ryan trailing him. “I’ll take everything down to be washed sometime this afternoon.”

“I can help,” Ryan piped up.

“No, you can’t,” Brendon responded as the reached the bedroom, flicking on the light with his elbow. The soiled bed covers tossed on the floor were illuminated and Brendon dropped the clothes in a pile next to them. “Two men going to wash blankets covered in cum together? I don’t think that’ll go over well with the other tenants, Ryan. Not exactly the thing male friends do.”

Ryan went red again. “Oh. Right. Probably a good point.”

“Uh-huh.” Brendon walked to his dresser, pulling open the drawers. 

He listened to Ryan’s bag unzipping from behind him. The shuffle of fabric as Ryan hopped into his clothes. Brendon sent a glance over his shoulder at Ryan buttoning up his shirt, and clipping his suspenders on. Such a shame. 

“Good God, Ry,” Brendon said, teasing. “How many suspenders do you own?”

Ryan continued getting dressed. “It’s my uniform.”

“We’re not in the army anymore,” Brendon reminded. “You don’t need a uniform.”

“Sure I do,” Ryan answered, finishing up the last few buttons. “Always need a uniform.”

Brendon didn’t have anything to say to that, instead shuffling through his drawers to find clothes. He needed to go to The Church to sing tonight. Oh. That was a sudden realization. He needed to sing. What would he do about singing while in Las Vegas? Would he have to quit? He didn’t want to quit. Surely Jon wouldn’t fire him for leaving. He wouldn’t be gone long. Just… He didn’t know actually; they didn’t really have a solid plan. 

He collected his clothes into his arms, setting them atop the dresser and dropping his towel to the ground. He was fine with Ryan watching him get dressed. It wasn’t embarrassing. He knew what he looked like. Besides, it wasn't as if they weren't well acquainted with each other's bodies at that point. It would be stupid to cover up now. 

“Can you uh—” He tried to think of how best to phrase it as he stepped into a fresh pair of briefs. “Can you walk me through the plan exactly? And I don’t mean what you want to happen. I mean what’s _going_ to happen.”

“For Vegas?” Ryan’s voice asked from behind Brendon. 

“Yeah.” Brendon tugged his undershirt over his head, smoothing it down as he turned to look at Ryan. The question was plain in his eyes. The hope he didn’t want to omit but that he couldn’t help. “The plan for Vegas. From now to then.”

“Oh.” Ryan blinked. 

He was a man standing in Brendon’s bedroom in a uniform for a war Brendon wasn’t even aware they were fighting and Brendon was clad in briefs and a tank-top, much too stripped down for his liking. He folded his arms and stared at Ryan. Ryan stared back. He didn’t have a plan. This was a pipe dream. 

Brendon felt stupid he believed in it.

“This isn’t going to work, Ryan,” he said quietly. As evenly as he could. As level-headed. It was the truth. “This is a bad idea. We can’t make this work.”

“Yes, we can,” Ryan insisted, worried. 

Brendon frowned, looking up at Ryan, his arms folded and hope crawling out of him. 

“We catch a cab,” Ryan said with a confidence Ryan Ross wasn’t known to have. 

“Who pays for it?” Brendon asked. 

“I do,” Ryan answered. “I pay for everything.”

Brendon shook his head. “I’m not gonna let you do that for m—”

“You’re right.” Ryan’s whiskey eyes flashed. “You’re not gonna _let_ me do anything. You asked for what’s going to happen; here’s what’s going to happen. Here’s what I’m doing. You’re not _letting_ me do it. I just am.”

Brendon widened his eyes, feeling his shoulders slack in mild shock at the tone. 

“We’re gonna catch a cab,” Ryan explained to him. “And _I’m_ gonna pay for it. Then, we take it to Provo, where the train stations are. And I’m going to buy us both tickets—”

“That’s a fifteen dollar ticket, Ry,” Brendon reasoned. 

“I bought it once,” he replied. “I’ll buy it again. And we’ll take the train to Las Vegas. You and me. Just like France.”

Brendon smiled. “This is nothing like France.”

“This is _everything_ like France.”

Brendon shook his head, glancing at the floor before darting his eyes back up. The hope was pouring out of Ryan too. Brendon hadn’t meant to let his own show but Ryan—Oh, Ryan had it on full display. Tragic, really, all that hope. Hope was such a tragic thing. The way it oozed from him like poison. 

“You and me, on that train. And we go to Vegas, and I tell Z and Spencer that you’re sleeping on my sofa. If it’s that big a deal, we can buy you a hotel room on the strip. If you think we have to.” Ryan let out a small sigh. “But I would rather—”

“I know what you’d rather,” Brendon said. 

“I want you in my bed,” Ryan replied and the way he said it almost sounded like he was surrendering to something. Brendon didn’t know exactly what. “But if you have to get a hotel room, I’ll get you a hotel room. And you can meet Z and Spencer and we’ll go to my dad’s funeral together. And they’ll put him in the ground and I’ll work on selling my house. Z’ll help me, I know she will.”

“And then?”

“What do you mean?”

“After you sell your house, after your dad’s in the ground, then what?” Brendon asked. “What do we do from there?”

Ryan blinked a couple of times. “Whatever you want to do.”

“Ryan—”

“I mean it.” Ryan cracked a grin. “I’ll have all this money from selling the house. Whatever you wanna do, Bren, we can. If you wanna come back here and do the same thing we’ve been doing. I could buy an apartment in this building. Stay here. Or we could stay in Vegas for a while, head down to the strip and see the lights—”

“I’m seeing the lights,” Brendon agreed. “If they’re anything like Nancy, I have to see the lights.”

Ryan beamed, brighter than any building on the strip or tiny town in France. “I’ll take you to see the lights and we can stay in Vegas for a bit maybe, lose all our money in a casino and start back at square one.”

Brendon laughed. “Sounds like fun to me.”

“Or we could go to Shelton, Connecticut and see Mike Naran’s dumb ass. Ask him how his foot feels. Throw him a parade. If you want to. Or—” Ryan’s voice dropped an octave lower. “Maybe we could head up to St. George. Visit your folks. If you haven’t seen them in too long and you want to.”

“You wanna meet my parents?” Brendon tried not to let his voice sound too yearning. “Thought I was supposed to be the dame.”

“I’m just giving out ideas. We don’t have to decide anything now; the mystery is part of the fun. C’mon.” Ryan’s smile was wide, glimmering. “Don’t you want to see where Nowhere is?”

Brendon’s scoff was half a sigh. “You’re still on that then?”

“Of course I’m still on that!” Ryan walked across the room to where Brendon was stood in front of the dresser. “I wanna know where it is.”

“I don’t know where Nowhere is,” Brendon answered when Ryan reached him, holding Ryan’s gaze in his own. Whiskey splashing around the bottomless basin of his dilated pupils. 

“You’re the one that wanted to go,” Ryan reminded him. 

“Well,” Brendon said. “I needed you to go with me. And you said no.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Ryan gestured to his suspenders. “So we’re going.”

“Okay,” Brendon agreed, smiling. “We’re going to Nowhere.”

“When?” Ryan asked. _When_. Brendon didn’t know. They had to go to a funeral, that meant soon. They had to go to Las Vegas as soon as possible. 

“Tomorrow,” Brendon decided without actually thinking about the words or what they meant. “We clean my sheets, pack our bags, and we go to The Church tonight and I get my paycheck from Jon. And we go. Tomorrow morning we just go.”

Ryan stared at him. Licked his lips. “Awful fast.”

“It is,” Brendon agreed. He hesitated, nervous. “Too fast?”

“No. Not fast enough. I’ll do it,” Ryan said without a thought. “Tomorrow it is.”

“Tomorrow,” Brendon repeated. 

And it was final. 

Brendon Urie was going to Las Vegas, Nevada the following morning with Ryan Ross. He was going to do it. No taking it back. That meant he had to quit his job tonight. Or at least take an extended leave of absence. What would Jon Walker say? Would he fire Brendon? Supposed it didn’t matter. Brendon had better things to do than sing in gay bars. What would Eric say? 

There was a lump in Brendon’s throat. 

What would Dallon?

Break Dallon’s heart and run. That’s what Brendon was doing. Breaking a heart and running away from his problems and his responsibilities and fleeing to Nowhere. Was that selfish? Absolutely it was. Without a single doubt, Brendon Urie was the most selfish man alive.

But Ryan Ross was in front of him in Brendon’s bedroom in his suspenders and his white button-up, sporting starry whiskey eyes and a smile that went for days—a confident smile—talking about a place called Nowhere and, what? Was Brendon really expected to be strong enough to deny that boy anything? As if he ever could. 

He leaned forward to kiss Ryan and Ryan responded easily; he was a good kisser. Kept getting better and better. He stepped into Brendon’s space and Brendon was forced to back up into his dresser. Ryan was pressing towards him and Brendon only took a moment to consider it before he jumped backward to sit on the dresser and Ryan stepped between his legs instantly, placing his palms on Brendon’s bare thighs. His palms were hot. 

Brendon wrapped his legs around Ryan’s middle to hold him in place, looping his arms around Ryan’s neck. Ryan grinned into the kiss and they parted for a moment, Ryan looking him over, glancing to Brendon’s legs around him. He continued to hold Brendon’s thighs. 

“Look at that,” he said quietly. “I’m trapped. Damn.”

Brendon laughed, kissing him again on the lips, hugging him, using his crossed ankles to push Ryan forward into the dresser, rocking their bodies together. Ryan sighed, sliding his hands down Brendon’s thighs and to his briefs, snagging him by the hips.

A new question for Z, _how often did he kiss you? Did he caress you? Hold you by the hips? Dig his fingers into your skin? Leave marks on you? Did you ever bite his lip? Did he ever bite yours? Is he okay with that? Does he like it? What does he like? Every excruciating detail. What gets Ryan Ross off?_

But Brendon would never ask her. He was much more eager to find it out first hand. 

“You’re rather sure of yourself right now,” Brendon said to Ryan’s mouth as he felt hands pulling at his waist, holding their bodies together. 

“I’m trying to be,” Ryan answered and there was an instant worry in his eyes and Brendon wanted to laugh. Fucking innocent. “Is it not work—”

“You’re doing good,” Brendon interrupted, kissing him again. He bit Ryan’s bottom lip and Ryan made a low sound. An intoxicating sound as Brendon tugged at it. “Damn good.” 

Ryan’s cheeks went burned red once again when Brendon pulled back, sitting on his dresser with a shit-eating smirk on his face, wearing only his briefs and undershirt, the rest of his clothes piled beside him. His legs snug around Ryan’s waist, resting on top of his belt, arms across his neck, Ryan’s hands weighing heavy on his hips, burning through the fabric of his briefs. 

“I want to take off your suspenders,” Brendon purred and Ryan cocked his head to the side and his hands ran back down Brendon’s thighs to his knees.

“I just put them on,” he said.

“I know,” Brendon replied, and he rutted his body against Ryan’s front, the friction rough on his briefs and Ryan let out a breath. “But I want them off now.”

He pressed their bodies together, grinding himself against Ryan’s crotch, sighing at the feeling and the noise Ryan made in the back of his throat was enough to make Brendon drag him forward again for a hasty kiss, a damp clash of their lips against each other. 

Ryan bent him back on the dresser, kissing him openly, and the sound of his breathing against Brendon’s tongue was dark and labored in Brendon’s ears. Brendon loved it. He loved how Ryan sounded. The hitch his breathing made when Brendon rubbed against him again. He scratched at Ryan’s neck with his fingernails, trying to get a better grip on him, something to hold them tighter together but Ryan jerked away—all too sudden—and Brendon chased his mouth breathlessly. 

“Hey,” Ryan said, rasping, and he took Brendon by the calves with his hands, pulling his legs apart and off his waist. Shoved them aside. His eyes were coy as he removed Brendon’s arms from around his neck. “Can’t leave marks. Remember?” 

Brendon scowled at him as Ryan backed away, breaking from their arrangement, leaving Brendon’s body feeling itching and far too hot for comfort. Writhing beneath his skin, half-hard. 

Ryan raised his hands in surrender. “Your words, not mine.”

That boy. That fucking boy. Ryan Ross knew exactly what he was doing. He knew what his innocence was doing to Brendon. Driving him crazy. Making his head spin and his body burn. 

“Get dressed,” Ryan said, turning to walk away. “We’ve got a lot to do tonight.”

Brendon groaned in protest, inching himself forward to hop off the dresser. “But I—”

“Get dressed, Bren,” Ryan returned through a laugh. “Keep it in your pants until Vegas. It’s only a day. I think you can manage. We’ve done alright thus far.”

“We fucked the same day we kissed,” Brendon pointed out, sliding fully off the dresser. “Don’t tell me about keeping it in my pants.”

“You asked,” Ryan reminded. His eyes were devious. Devilish. “How was it that you asked again? What was it? ‘Fuck me, please,’ was that it?”

Brendon scoffed. “That is not how I asked.”

“‘If I asked you to fuck me, would you’,” Ryan recited, snapping his fingers like he had figured something important out. “That’s how you said it.”

Brendon folded his arms. “Think I made the right decision.”

“I do too,” Ryan said. He smiled but it was more to himself than to Brendon. Cheery all of a sudden and far more youthful. “I really do. And I think I did too.”

“What decision is that?” Brendon asked. 

“Having sex with you,” Ryan responded as though it was obvious. The confidence was nervous energy but it was determined and it made Brendon smile at him. Made Brendon love him a little more. “Great decision really. I love you, and all that, so it was good. It was great. I’ll do it again in Vegas. Fuck you.”

“And _all that_ ,” Brendon repeated carefully and he laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah. Me too, Ryan. I love you too. And all that. Vegas sounds good. I’ll get dressed. Be modest for once.”

Ryan appeared beyond content and he turned to go about his business. Packing to take Brendon to Las Vegas with him. Letting Brendon go and get things washed, clean things up. Make the bed with fresh sheets and fold clothes up, putting them back in his army pack like he was heading off to France again. Back to see the lights in Nancy. 

There was something oddly compelling about the process. Packing. Walking between rooms. Ryan pecking a kiss on Brendon’s cheek or hair whenever he passed by. Brendon smiled the same smile every time. One he couldn’t hold down. The someone-loves-me smile. Ryan returned it. 

Brendon fixed his polo shirt over his blue slacks, sliding his belt on as he listened to Ryan zipping his bag up in the bedroom. He pulled on his oxfords, grinning to himself. It was happening. He was going to do it. He was going to Las Vegas, Nevada. He was going to find Nowhere. 

He was going to love and be loved. 

“Dixie,” Brendon called as he straightened. “You decent?”

“Don’t call me that,” Ryan said back as he entered from the bedroom, brushing off his clothes. His orvals clicked on the floor. He shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked into the sitting room. 

“Ah,” Brendon murmured, peering at Ryan walking towards him. “ _Very_ decent.” 

“Mhm, thank you.” Ryan crossed the room and kissed Brendon lightly on the temple before bobbing his head to the door. “You ready to go?”

“Absolutely, Dixie.”

“You’re not going to call me that,” Ryan said seriously. “If you do, I’ll have to think of something to call you.”

Brendon simpered. “I encourage it. Call me whatever you want.”

Ryan seemed disgruntled by that and he frowned as they started towards the door. Go to The Church early to meet with Jon and Eric; settle everything. Sing into the night as usual. And then leave. Leave and go get two train tickets. Go to Vegas. Run to Las Vegas with Ryan Ross. Find Nowhere. That was the plan, and Brendon was going to stick to it. He had a plan.

“Doll?” Ryan suggested as he put a hand on the doorknob. Brendon shook his head. “Dish? Bird?”

Brendon snorted. “I’m not a dame. Don’t call me one.”

“And I’m not a jar of sugar,” Ryan argued, pulling the door open. 

“No.” Brendon kept his mouth beside Ryan’s ear as he passed. “But you taste like one.”

And he exited the door without looking back, knowing Ryan was going to follow him. Knowing Ryan didn’t have anything better to do than follow Brendon wherever he went. It was only fair though; Brendon would do the same to him if he stepped ahead a few feet. 

They walked a foot apart, traveling the same path as they had before. But Brendon wasn’t crying this time, and his head wasn’t hung low, and his heart didn't hurt. He was smiling and Ryan was too and it felt right. Something about it all felt right as they walked alongside one another to The Church. 

“Eric’s gonna have a fit,” Brendon remarked as they went. 

“Absolutely, he is,” Ryan agreed; his limp wasn’t too bad and his bruises were almost all healed. 

“Jon’ll say something stupid.” Brendon puckered his lips. “I’ll probably punch him for it.”

“If you don’t, I will,” Ryan added helpfully, completely serious, and Brendon had to laugh again.

Eric got to The Church at 6:30 and Jon—if Cassie was still mad at him, which she most likely was—would be there no matter what. It was almost six-thirty on the dot when Brendon and Ryan reached the doors, Butch not yet having arrived. 

Brendon wondered if he should say goodbye to Butch. If he should say goodbye to anyone. To Eric, definitely. Eric deserved a goodbye. And he was required to give one to Jon to get his check. Would he say goodbye to Dallon?

Brendon hoped Dallon wasn’t there. He doubted he would be able to face him.

When they walked inside, sure enough, Jon Walker was behind the bar and Eric was with him, chatting away aimlessly as he so often did. Brendon had to smile. He would miss Eric’s chittering. 

Ryan and he didn’t say anything as they advanced towards the pair, but the moment Eric caught sight of them, he was up and off of his stool, a grin dominating his face as he called out, “Urie! Ross! Hi!”

He reached them and his arms were open, almost like he expected a hug, but then he looked between them, his face faltering a tad and he dropped his arms. Settled for a rough grip of Brendon’s shoulder instead, holding him tight and shaking. 

“Hi,” he repeated, softer, and his smile was warm when he looked between the pair once more. “Hey fellas. It's good to see you.”

“Hey Eric. You too,” Brendon returned and Ryan chorused it, dipping his head. 

“Don’t just stand there,” Eric said quickly, gesturing with both hands for them to follow. “Let’s get you two a drink, huh?”

“I think a drink would be good,” Brendon said and Ryan nodded his head as they went to the bar and sat down. 

Eric Ronick, Brendon Urie, and Ryan Ross sitting like ducks in a row across from Jon Walker on the other side of the bar, glaring at all of them individually in a different way. 

There was a half-drunk glass of brandy on the table between Jon and Eric and Brendon wasn’t sure which one of them it belonged to. Probably not Eric. Did Eric drink much? Didn’t seem like the kind. If he was this spastic without alcohol, Brendon didn’t want to imagine him with. 

Jon didn’t move to make them a drink and neither Brendon nor Ryan moved to ask for one. Brendon was alright with sitting at the bar. Just sitting and listening to Eric talk and Jon Walker scowl.

“Uh—” Eric coughed and shifted on his stool. He kept petting his bowtie with a hand. “It’s good to see you both. You know we worried that you—Urie—that you wouldn’t come back after—” He lowered his voice a fraction. “The incident.”

Incident? It wasn’t an incident. It shouldn’t be called one. Call it like it was. Brendon broke Dallon’s heart. That was the incident. Brendon broke a heart and loved someone else. 

Brendon swallowed nervously; he couldn’t help himself. “You haven’t talked to… Dallon… have you?”

Jon shook his head. “Heard jackshit. But he’ll be here tonight.”

Brendon perked up. “You sure?”

“If he doesn’t, he’s not getting paid,” Jon grunted. He had on the same outfit as the night prior. Cassie was definitely still mad. He reached out to take a sip of the drink on the table. So it was his brandy. Only made sense. A drunk man getting drunker. “Dally needs money. We all do. Be an idiot not to show.”

Ryan watched him drink it, sitting next to Brendon in silence. He had his hands folded in his lap and his whiskey eyes were unfocused. He was thinking but Brendon wasn’t sure what about. Didn’t ask. Ryan would tell him later. 

“He’ll be around; don’t you worry about it,” Eric added, glancing at Brendon. There was a worry in his eyes. “Do you think you two will—”

“He’s not taking B back, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Jon said, taking another drink, flicking his dark eyes to Brendon. “You can forget about it. D’you see the way he looked at you? No way. You’re not getting that boy’s cock back in your ass anytime soon.” 

Ryan snarled, shifting in his seat and his fists flexed and unflexed in his lap. Brendon didn't think about it as he reached beneath the bar to take one. Ryan looked down and took it in a rush, squeezing onto it. Brendon didn't look at him; kept his attention on Jon Walker. 

“Jon,” Eric started to warn but Brendon waved his free hand to him, signaling silence.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I don’t care so much.”

All eyes went to him, surprised. That was the only word for how Eric, Jon, and Ryan looked at him. Pure surprise. 

“Make all the jokes you want, Jon.” Brendon rested his arm on top of the bar and let Ryan pull their hands into his lap. “I’m all ears.”

Jon blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked like an idiot. Eric stared on and he flashed a look between Jon and Brendon, thoroughly confused. Ryan didn’t break his gaze from Brendon. A smile was hinting at the corner of his lips. 

“That’s not very funny. You’re losing your charm,” Brendon hummed, batting his eyes. “C’mon. Nothing, Jon? Not a thing?”

“You can’t make jokes about empty air,” Jon hissed back. He had a firm grip on his brandy glass and Brendon knew it was supposed to make him look assured but his eyes were nothing but wary. Eric sported the same concern. 

“Didn’t have any problems making jokes about fucking clouds though,” Eric reminded dully. 

“Ronnie.” Jon sent him a look that Eric returned, just as harsh and Eric raised his hands up, spinning on his stool. Jon, appeased, glanced back at Brendon. Looked him up and down sharply. Tried to figure him out. Brendon’s smile didn’t give anything away. He glowered, asking, “What’re you doing here so early anyhow?”

Brendon and Ryan shared a look and it was plain in Ryan’s face and the way he held Brendon's hand in his lap beneath the bar. _You tell it. Your story._

Brendon turned back. Darted his eyes between Eric’s concerned face and Jon Walker’s scowl. He broke into an awkward smile. 

“I’m quitting,” he said. 

Eric sat bolt upright. “You’re _what_?”

“Quitting,” Brendon repeated. “I’m not gonna sing here anymore. I’m done.”

“What?” Eric asked. "When? Why?" 

“Now,” Brendon replied. “This is my last night. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Leaving?” Eric cried at the same time Jon said, “We?”

“Brendon’s coming with me to Vegas,” Ryan elaborated. His smile could be heard in the words and felt in the way he clutched Brendon's hand in his own. 

“Oh, I bet he’s coming with you alright,” Jon muttered, staring at Brendon dead on, and Eric reached across the bar to hit him on the arm. Jon didn’t do much other than hiss though and rub at the offended limb. “You’re not serious, are you? You two aren’t—”

“We’re going to Vegas,” Brendon insisted. “I’m going to Vegas. With Ryan.”

“You can’t go to Vegas.” Eric’s eyes were massive. “You— _Together_? You’re gonna go together? _Urie_. What the hell are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking Vegas has a lot of pretty lights I wanna see.” Brendon propped his head up with his hand on the bar. Ryan leaned forward on the bar so he could peer past Brendon to see Eric’s aghast face, suspenders pressing to the wood. 

Eric shook his head back and forth in disbelief. “I-I have so many words.”

“Let’s hear ‘em,” Brendon invited. 

“You both—You love each other and that’s very nice. Very good. You two—Well, you know how I feel about it,” Eric started, voice high. Ryan’s shoulder was pressed against Brendon’s. “But it’s-it’s obvious you do. The way that you two—God, one look at you and they—You’re asking to get destroyed there. They’re going to destroy you two. Don’t you see that?”

“It’s only Vegas,” Ryan tried. “And we won’t be there that long. Besides, my family thinks I’m seeing a girl.”

“You’re going to meet the family?” Eric echoed. There was a dreamy quality to those eyes and his panic subsided for a moment. Brendon had to laugh at him. 

“Dear God,” Jon groaned and he wiped a hand at his forehead. “I’ve never seen more faggots in a room together.”

“You work at a queer club,” Ryan deadpanned. 

Jon had both hands on his face, words muffled. “Shut up.”

“You two are going to have to be—” Eric sighed and he tugged at his bowtie to make it tighter. “You can’t let anyone—”

“I’m a faggot, Eric,” Brendon said to him. “I know how to keep a secret.”

Ryan stayed quiet beside him but his shoulder bumped against Brendon’s and his hand twitched. 

Eric said, frowning, “How are you going to—That’s a ten-dollar ticket.”

“Fifteen,” Ryan corrected.

Eric looked like he might faint. “Fifteen! Hot damn, that’s a fortune. How are you gonna afford something like that?”

“I was hoping to get my paycheck for the last few nights early.” Brendon sent a look to Jon Walker. Smiled personably. “If my boss would be so kind.”

And then all sets of eyes were on Jon, which he most definitely did not appreciate. He looked to Eric first—always Eric first—gaping. “I—”

His eyes went to Brendon next. And where Brendon expected there to be hatred, there was none. Why did Jon Walker look so tired? 

“My checkbook is downstairs,” he muttered. 

Brendon’s smile drowned. That was it? That was all? Jon Walker was just going to agree to pay him? Just like that? Felt too easy. No argument? No taunting or dares? Just like that? Much too easy. Where was the catch?

Jon stalked around the bar, taking his brandy glass with him, beckoning with his head for Brendon to follow after. Brendon sent one look to Ryan, eyebrows up in question, but Ryan only nodded his head for him to go. He let Brendon slide his hand from Ryan's and stand from the stool. Eric saw it happen and he cooed, causing Brendon to roll his eyes and Ryan to snort. 

"Sorry," Eric said, realizing his noise had been too obvious. 

“It's fine, Eric. I’ll see you two in a minute,” Brendon said behind him as he followed Jon Walker to the door of The Church. 

He heard Eric start babbling before they even left the room. Heard Ryan laugh in response as the door fully closed behind him, drowning away. 

Jon’s boots clunked down the staircase laboriously and Brendon’s own oxfords sounded muted as he trailed after. Jon didn’t say anything when they reached the main room, leading Brendon straight to the bar of The Church. 

Brendon frowned to himself as he stood across from Jon, watching the man rustle through drawers. 

“You’re really going then?” Jon asked without looking up. “To Vegas with your war boy; you’re really going?”

Brendon nodded, his throat feeling dry. 

“Hell of a bold move there, Urie,” Jon said as he produced a small pamphlet of a book and slapped it onto the bar. Took a pen from his pocket and Brendon had an odd memory in his head all of a sudden. 

That night three weeks prior when Brendon had been wearing a cocky sneer on his face. When his ego, much like the alcohol, had gone to his head. A headache had started and he was drunk. Painfully drunk. He had said, “If you asked. I’d sing again. I like it here.”

Jon Walker had stared at him and wet his lips. Jon Walker had been more sober than Brendon then. There was a joke in there somewhere. 

And Brendon had said to him, “One condition.”

“Name it,” Jon had returned.

“A pen?” 

Jon Walker had scoffed but after a moment, he had complied and handed over a fountain pen to Brendon’s bumbling, drunk ass. 

And Brendon had used that utensil to write a letter to Ryan Ross in Las Vegas. To ask him to come to Utah. And all of this had transpired. Brendon had Jon Walker to thank for that. Hilarious. 

His heart thumped at the thought as he watched Jon start scratching something out on the check. All too easy. 

“You really figure that’s a good idea?” Jon asked him mindlessly. 

“Going to Vegas?” Brendon asked. “I’m trying not to think too much about it.”

“That’s ‘cause you know it’s a bad idea.” Jon grabbed his liquor. “You gotta know that, B.”

“I do,” Brendon answered after a moment. 

“Why’re you going then? If you know it’s a bad idea?” Jon asked. There was something so level about his brown eyes and the way he held Brendon in them. Almost as innocent as they had been the first night Brendon met him. When his wife didn't hate him. 

“I love him,” Brendon said and that was the answer. That was why he was going.

Jon snorted. “Love won’t get you jackshit in the long run, B. Hope you know that.”

“I do.”

“You know you’re a damn fool then too, for doing this? Know you’re about as stupid as they come?” Jon drank his brandy leisurely. Like had all the time in the world to get drunk; even if he was already there. “Won’t end pretty for you.”

“You don’t know that. It might.” Brendon angled his brows up. “Might end beautifully.” 

Jon Walker shook his head, scoffing, but it wasn’t a laugh. It was a wretched sound that forced itself from his vocal cords. “Nothing with love ends pretty for fellas like you.”

“You’re drunk,” Brendon mumbled, because Jon was. 

“I’m always drunk,” Jon grunted; the truth, but it was desolate somehow. Much sadder than it had been in the past. “Why the hell do you think I opened a bar? Better access. God, imagine how stupid it’d be if I owned a bar and was sober. Damn ironic.”

Like going to war and dying from a dog bite instead of a bullet. 

“Lemme indulge you, huh, B?” Jon Walker pressed and he set his glass down on the table with a clink. “For old’s time sake before you run off to get yourself killed.”

Brendon shifted on his feet but he nodded, setting his arms down on the bar. He ignored Jon Walker’s checkbook in favor of his desolate, drunk eyes. He said, blankly, “Think you’re on the wrong side of the bar to be telling stories.”

“Eh, we can break the rules tonight.” Jon shrugged. “We are in a fag bar, aren’t we? Rules are made to be broken here.”

Brendon coughed a laugh but didn’t say anything. Waited for Jon Walker to spin him a tale like a spiderweb, twisting and wandering. A drunk spider that spun a home with no beginning and no end. Only a middle. A bunch of thread that didn’t weave together right. Exactly the sort of story Brendon needed to hear from someone like Jon Walker. 

“I opened the Walk about three years ago,” Jon said. “Little bit before you ran for the hills. France treat you better than this place?”

“France treated me just fine,” Brendon returned. Ryan treated him perfect.

“Church opened about a year after.” Jon hummed to himself and took a shaky drink of his brandy. “There ain’t many gay clubs in this town.”

“I know that,” Brendon said. And he did. By the time he was nineteen, he had been to every single one of them. 

“You know why I opened this bar?” Jon asked. “For faggots? Why it was me and no one else?”

Brendon opened his mouth to answer before he paused. Realized he didn’t have a goddamn clue and he blinked, wide-eyed, as he shook his head. “I don’t actually.”

“I been friends with Eric a long time,” Jon mumbled and Brendon listened intently. “And Eric, as you know, is sort of a bitch.”

Brendon huffed. “He says the same thing about you.”

“I know.” Jon quirked his mouth to half a melancholy smile. Dreaming drunk. “He’s a great guy, Eric. Better than most. And he’s a faggot. Just is. Sucks cock. And as you’ll know, he’s got a big fucking mouth.”

Brendon nodded. Yes. He was well aware. He joked, “Easier to suck dick with.”

Jon’s eyes flashed dangerously then and Brendon felt he had said the wrong thing. Didn't know exactly what though. Why that joke would be what twisted Jon Walker wrong. But he didn’t apologize or press and Jon shook his head, cleared his thoughts, before he started up again.

“And Eric—two years ago—got himself into a bit of trouble with that fucking mouth of his.” Jon’s face had creased into a grimace. “Only bars the fags got’re straight ones with a twist. And you gotta be careful, y’know, ‘bout who you take home from one'a those.”

Brendon’s mouth felt dry as he nodded. It was true. When you were a queer you had to be careful about who you shared your bed with. Brendon never took someone home; not ever. Ryan Ross was the only man he ever fucked in his own bed. Rule one of being a faggot. Don’t take anyone to your own place. And he only ever went home with someone else if he had met them once before. Only twice had that happened. Otherwise, it was wise to stick to a bathroom or an alley where he could get out quick or, at least, his body would be easy to find. 

“He’s a trusting guy, Eric,” Jon said glumly. “Trust gets you fucked in life.”

Brendon swallowed. “What happened to him?”

“He got the shit beat out of him is what,” Jon answered and there was a snarl to the words, fury. Nothing else it could have been. Rage. “Bastards fucked his ribs over and broke four of his fingers. Couldn’t play piano for months. Balled his fucking eyes out the entire time, I swear, just like a broad. He slept in my—Cassie and my’s—guest room for a while. But when he was better, he went back. First night he was on his feet, he went back. Self-destructive, I'm telling you. And I didn't want him to—Not after—” 

Jon cut himself off and stood behind the bar. He was staring down at his checkbook. He was breathing in pants.

“This right here, is just about the only safe place in Clearfield for faggots. If it weren’t for this place, half of you would be dead in a ditch by now.” He looked up. Pointed a finger. “You included, B. You’d be fucked up the ass, dead, with your head on backward anywhere else.”

Brendon wet his lips. Stared. There was a disgusting feeling in his stomach. “It’s a good place here, Jon.”

“You’re gonna die in Las Vegas if you look at that boy wrong,” Jon hissed, staring straight ahead. 

“It’s a chance I’m willing to take,” Brendon replied before he even considered it. Death was a chance he was willing to take when it came to Ryan Ross. If he died in Vegas, so be it. He wanted to die in France, anyhow. He had only delayed the inevitable. 

“Don’t take it, s’what I’m saying,” Jon snapped and he ripped the check from the book with a terrible sound. “Go to Vegas if think you gotta. If you're really such an idiot. But be fucking smart about it. Don’t look at the boy wrong when other people are around. All I’m saying. Don’t end up getting fucked.” He sneered and it was closer to the Jon Walker Brendon knew. More comfortable. “By anyone other than him, o’course. Get fucked by him all you want.” 

Brendon laughed uneasily. He figured he owed Jon that much. “Yeah. Thanks, Jon.”

Jon handed him over the check and Brendon took it, glancing down at the number before looking up to say goodbye before the writing processed in his brain. He stopped dead. Took a sharp breath and did a double-take. 

Made out to _Brendon B. Urie_ in a cursive font and right under it: 

_$ 350_

Brendon’s breath caught in his throat, his heart leaping up to join it, and he fought to find words. To say anything. “I—Jon this is—”

“For the first two weeks I didn’t pay you,” Jon said calmly, like it should have made perfect sense. Like it was only obvious. “Was always kidding about that deal, you know. Always planned to pay you. Just didn’t have enough time what with you and Dally running off so often. What with you getting fucked by everyone all the goddamn time. Never had time.”

“Jon—” 

“It should be enough for a train ticket to Vegas. Fifteen bucks right? Three-fifty better cover it.” Jon went on without letting Brendon speak. “And a hotel room for a while. A week or two. You’re not staying with the boy. Not in the same house. You’re not that fucking stupid.”

Brendon looked up at him, gaping. 

“Close your mouth,” Jon said and he looked away, taking a long sip of his liquor. He waited for a beat to say, “Eric is gonna whine nonstop when you’re gone. Grip and bitch for hours. Probably more than when he got his fingers broke. He liked your singing. Liked you more.”

Brendon gripped the check in his hands. He might have been shaking. For the first two weeks, his ass. This was double that. _Holy shit_. He might pass out. 

“He’ll cry when you come back,” Jon carried on bluntly, oblivious.

Brendon stared at him. Echoed, “When I come back?”

Jon looked over. Squinted. “I figure you’re coming back. Eventually.”

“We might—”

“Well, when you come back,” Jon said, ignoring Brendon again. “I’ll want you to sing that Doll song again. Got good remarks. People liked it. I figure they’ll want a reprise after; what with you bein’ gone so long. Make it a real show for them. Maybe I can charge extra.”

Brendon smiled despite himself. “I don’t have to quit?”

“Did I say you could?” Jon snapped.

“You didn’t.”

“I could fire you,” Jon suggested, taking a drink. 

“Wait for me to get back,” Brendon returned. “I’ll let you fire me then.”

And Jon smiled at him genuinely. Sullen, all too sober eyes. He pivoted to Brendon and held out his hand which Brendon shook willingly, holding it in a tight grip, as he stuffed the check into his pocket with his other hand. He was definitely shaking. Jon could tell but he didn't say a word. 

“Thank you,” Brendon said. Honest. “Jon. Thank you, really. Thank you so—”

“Yeah, yeah. Try not to die, huh?” Jon returned, parting their hands to drink his brandy again, stepping back to put away his checkbook. “I spent good money on you. Be a damn waste if you died.”

Brendon couldn't stop smiling. “I’ll try not to.”

And—unlike France—he would. Probably wouldn’t have to though, if he was being honest. Ryan Ross had this funny habit of being there to save him before he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go. Hope it doesn't take too long. Chances are though, it will. Thanks endlessly for reading!


	35. Call Me When You Find the Moral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna try to keep this as brief as possible; feel free to skip.
> 
> This has been such an incredible experience and I am so happy that I wrote this story. It has been so much fun and I'm really gonna miss it. I cannot express enough how much it means that people read it. Thank you, thank you to everyone who did.
> 
> And I have to give a special thanks to tobealive for 100% being _that bitch_ and commenting on _every_ chapter. Without them, this story never would have been written past chapter three. Thank you endlessly.
> 
> Also, this is the last chapter but I will be going back through and making edits (grammatical / historical / tags) but other than that, this is the fic in its completion.
> 
> Thank you. I hope you enjoy.

It was green outside. 

All different shades. Pretty green and dusty green and dark and lime colored. Every green there could have been, splattered like paint outside the window. Every shade of green Ryan could think of. Just as it had been the first time Ryan Ross rode on a train with Brendon Urie. The first time that Brendon had sat across from him, staring out the window at the world that sped by them as they fled to Las Vegas from France. The first time Ryan had sat there and thought, _if only I liked boys_. 

And, for the record, Ryan didn’t like boys. He didn’t. Didn’t like girls either, if he was being honest. He loved Elizabeth Berg for some time until she broke his heart. And now, he loved Brendon. 

He loved Brendon Urie, who happened to be a boy, and that’s all there was to it. 

And everything that went by as he thought about it—thought about what a predicament he was in and the future that was sprawling out at his feet, vast and inviting in its terror—was green. 

The grass that rushed by in an angry spurt outside the window. Blurry trees that were speckled with yellow in the midst of their foliage, marking the fall that was creeping across the landscape. An inclination of the months that would soon turn colder. As cold as the nights in Clearfield when Ryan and Brendon fled from queer bars in the dark and Brendon wiped tears off his cheeks. The hills that rolled in the distance, far off from the train’s window—a whole other world—and the tracks that it sped across.

The train bumped over the rails and Ryan could feel how it vibrated beneath him, causing him to shift more to one side than the other. 

It felt slower this time around, the train’s pace. Slower than it had been the first time. 

It had almost felt too fast when they were coming back from France; when Ryan originally rode a train with Brendon Urie to Las Vegas. Felt like everything was going too quickly for his liking back then. Too fast to properly process. But now? Now the train ran how it pleased and Ryan couldn’t give a shit how fast it went. Whether it sprinted down the track or it inched along; it didn’t matter. No reason to rush it. Felt like Ryan Ross had all the time in the goddamn world. 

Brendon was sitting absently across from him on the train seat—relaxed—with an utterly impossible look on his face. That was the only word Ryan could think to describe how Brendon was looking. Relaxed and impossible. 

With those evil, black eyes, widened and imploring as they stared out the window—over all that different shaded green—flicking over the glass aimlessly; searching for something they weren’t likely to find in the world that passed outside the train. 

Ryan looked too—hoping he could find what Brendon’s black eyes couldn’t—but there wasn’t anything there. 

Brendon had a cigarette balanced between two fingers, slack, and he was smoking every now and again. The process was calm and slow like there wasn’t anything else worth doing and, for a moment, it provided a comforting feeling for Ryan. Just watching Brendon breathe smoke in and out, blowing it between their faces, Brendon’s legs tossed and folded over the arm of his chair, shoulder up against the glass of the window. 

Ryan didn’t say anything about it. There was plenty of room to spread out after all. He was glad Brendon was taking advantage of it. 

The smoke wafted between them, filling the air up and dancing in front of their faces, snaking into nostrils and staining the air with an ashy taste. Ryan took a breath and found the air tasting of Brendon. 

The man accused, Brendon Urie, smiled through the fumes—as if he knew what Ryan was thinking—and tapped out his cigarette before taking another drag. If Ryan had to describe the look Brendon was giving him, the impossible way he was staring, Ryan would have said that Brendon appeared as though he was ready to start a fire with that gasper—burn every green spec outside to black—and Ryan was happy to let him do it. There was all the time in the world. They didn’t have anything better to do than burn. 

They were sure to burn in Las Vegas; Ryan knew it. He would be an idiot if he didn’t. Or, maybe, just a liar. But what a beautiful thing it would be, burning. Catching flame from all those beautiful lights on the strip and shriveling up to nothing. It was Nancy’s lights or those. And seeing Brendon smirk at him across the table through smoke? It was obvious to Ryan that he had made the right decision. Didn't matter where you ended up burning. Only who was there in the fire with you. 

Eric Ronick didn’t seem to think so. Didn't seem to like the idea of burning up. Too kind a man for that. He had blubbered for a good twenty minutes after Brendon had finished singing that night. Once Brendon had stepped off the stage and the crowd had dispersed and once again it was only the four of them. Jon Walker, Eric Ronick, Brendon Urie, and Ryan Ross. Dallon Weekes hadn't shown up. No one asked where he was but they all wondered. Ryan really wondered. 

Eric made a show of hanging all over Brendon. Ryan figured if he had more arms, he would have hugged Ryan too. Ryan was glad he only had two. So, with the two arms he had, Eric wrapped himself around Brendon Urie and crooned like he was a bird, saying over and over again that they should write him, tell him what they were up to. Asked them to send him cards and pictures and that he wished he was going to Vegas too because, 'good Lord, Vegas sounds so much more fun than Clearfield'. 

Ryan almost felt bad he was taking Brendon away. Like he was a thief and should be charged with some sort of crime. Brendon seemed guilty too as he looked down at Eric, thrown across him. 

“I wanna hear all about it,” Eric said in a slurred voice, an arm around Brendon’s shoulders, leaning against him for support. 

Ryan got the impression that Eric Ronick had drunk a bit more than he was supposed to. Certainly, more than he needed to. But it only made Ryan grin wider at him. At the glazed-over eyes he sported and the hiccuping sounds that came from his throat when he laughed. 

Eric kept insisting, “Can’t leave me out of the loop; that’s just not fair. Can’t hop on away and expect me to let you. Gotta keep me informed. Gotta.”

Brendon shook his head, chuckling to himself, and he wrapped an arm around Eric in return to keep him upright. Eric beamed at him gratefully, as Brendon said, “We’ll write you, Eric; don’t you worry about it. Maybe I’ll even call if you're lucky. We'll get back to you, for sure.”

“Promise?” Eric batted his eyelashes over hickory eyes, all too charming for a drunk man, and Brendon rolled his eyes. He cast Ryan a quick glance which Ryan returned with a snort. Eric Ronick was a clingy drunk. Granted, he was clingy sober.

“Promise,” Brendon said back—Ryan didn't know if that was a real promise or not—and Eric settled, appeased for the time being. 

Jon Walker was standing across from them, hands shoved into his pockets with Ryan standing beside him. Jon didn’t care so much about Ryan Ross, keeping his eyes fixed on Brendon and Eric’s embrace. Or, more accurately, keeping his eyes focused on Eric’s drunk smile. There was something of distaste in his expression. 

“He’s taking after you,” Ryan said to his side as Brendon and Eric prattled on to one another, Eric asking the same questions in a stupor and Brendon laughing and answering the same way every time. He didn't seem to be getting bored, though. Jon turned to his side with raised brows, almost appearing offended that Ryan had said such a thing. That Ryan would dare to speak out of turn. 

“What?” Jon asked, narrowing his eyes. 

“He’s wasted,” Ryan pointed out, a finger hooked in Eric's direction. It was obvious; Eric was losing it. Ryan's tone was teasing but the words were true. “You’re a bad influence.”

Jon peered back at Eric and Ryan didn’t have a word for the expression that crossed Jon Walker’s face again. Fear, maybe, was the closest Ryan could come up with. Despair; if he was being cynical. Turning everything to blues as he so often did. Ryan hadn’t meant for that to happen. It wasn’t supposed to be a sad night. A melancholic one, sure. Something with more pessimism than previous conversations, but it wasn’t supposed to be _sad_. 

Brendon and Ryan were going to Las Vegas together. It wasn’t a sad thing. Not for them, anyway. 

Ryan felt happy. Happier than he had in a long time, actually. Brendon’s broad smile insinuated he did too. There was a flutter to Ryan’s stomach, an uneven beat to his heart, as he thought about it. As it properly hit. He was doing it. He and Brendon were really doing it. Las Vegas, the two of them. Love. And the world felt right.

“You will write him,” Jon said. His brows had creased together and Ryan wondered why he looked different than usual. Less drunk, perhaps. He didn’t have a glass in hand. Didn't even have one on the table behind him. “Won’t you? Won’t shut up until you do. You better.”

“I figured I’d call him like Bren said,” Ryan answered, hoping that was the reply that Jon Walker wanted to hear from him. “We do have phones in Vegas, after all. I don’t have to write him a letter. We’ll call when we get settled.”

It must have been the right thing to say after all, because Jon nodded, swaying back on his heels slightly. He didn’t say anything more about Eric Ronick’s worries. Only nodded to himself like something made sense. Like any of it did. 

Very few things made sense in Clearfield, Utah. Although, the things that did make sense meant more than anything else. Brendon made sense. His smile as he talked to Eric did. And that was all that mattered to Ryan. One thing that made sense above the others. All he needed.

Ryan stared at Jon for a moment, that expression he couldn’t place, before he extended his hand between them. An invitation. 

Jon paused, darting his eyes from the hand to Ryan’s face and it was clear that he didn’t know what was expected of him. Ryan only continued to hold his hand between them, waiting for Jon to get the hint, until Jon finally reached out and took his hand, giving it a firm shake. For a drunk man, he had a good grip. 

“It was good to meet you, Jon,” Ryan said. And it had been in a way. Jon Walker was a prick, no doubt about it it, but Dan Pawlovich had been a prick too and Ryan hadn’t hated him. Hate was an odd word. Maybe Ryan didn’t quite grasp it yet.

“Uh-huh.” Jon broke away from the handshake, taking the time to wipe his hand off on his suit. Not to actually clean it. Just to show Ryan that he did. “You’re alright too, Ryro.”

Ryan couldn’t do much except smile stiffly at him.

“I don’t have much to say to you,” Jon decided to speak aloud after a moment, voice faint beside Ryan. "Haven't got a speech or anything. Nothing I need you to walk away with." 

Eric was still chattering to Brendon, grinning and laughing, and Brendon was still pretending to listen to him. Although the smile stretched over his face was very much real. Brendon seemed to like him. Ryan liked him too. He liked how drunk Eric was after only a few rounds, how rosy his cheeks were, and how his laugh was hitching and crackly. Eric Ronick was a damn good guy.

Ryan shrugged, not taking his eyes from Brendon’s smile. The only thing worth paying attention to. “It’s alright.”

“I’m not apologizing,” Jon bit back, offended for the third time that Ryan had thought something he wasn't supposed to. Jon Walker didn’t apologize for anything. Ryan knew that. Should have known that. 

But he only raised a brow, frowning. “Okay?”

Jon kept his eyes on Eric and Brendon. Watched them laugh with one another. They were too far away to hear Ryan and Jon’s quiet discussion and Ryan wondered when they had gotten so distant. He didn’t remember walking away with Jon, but there he was, leaning his back against the bar with Jon Walker at his side, the wood harsh against his spine. 

Jon had his hands balled into fists in his pockets. “I don’t know you all that well, after all. Only been, what? Two days?”

“Three maybe,” Ryan offered. 

“Huh.” Jon tapped his shoe on the ground. His fists shifted in his pockets; it was odd seeing him without a bottle in one hand. That’s what was different about him. He didn’t have a drink. Odd. “Feels like two.” 

Ryan nodded slowly. “Guess so.”

“Only known B for about three weeks; not even that long,” Jon supplied. “Two weeks and a few days.”

“Right.”

“He’s a damn good singer,” Jon said and once again Ryan nodded. He knew that. Everyone knew that. Brendon Urie was a great singer; even Sinatra couldn’t compare. With a honey voice like that, who could think anything else? “Shame you two are moving on from here. Boy was worth a pretty penny. Customers’ll be sad to see him go.”

He sent Ryan a look from the corner of his eyes and Ryan knew it was supposed to be a guilt trip. Had to be one. Ryan couldn’t find himself feeling very guilty though. Only light. His whole body felt lighter, as if he wasn’t really in it, just floating along and listening to Brendon’s laugh and seeing him smile. It was enough to make the world slow its spin by a few paces. 

“Saw the check, didn’t you?” Jon asked. 

Ryan nodded hurriedly, snapping back to the conversation at hand. He had seen the check. Had seen the way Brendon’s hands shook when he showed it over. The way his eyes had glinted when they caught Ryan’s. The way he had looked like he was going to kiss him before Jon had shoved him on stage to sing that night. 

Ryan said aloud, not at all bitter that he hadn't been able to kiss Brendon, “I did. Thank you, Jon. For that. I did see it. It was very—Thank you. It means a lot; thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Jon returned. “Ain’t for you.”

Ryan closed his mouth. He probably should have know that’s where the conversation was going. Jon Walker was hardly the kind to carry on a friendly discussion. 

“He’s getting a hotel room.”

Ryan didn’t say anything. 

“The boy’s getting a hotel room and you’re gonna stay in your own goddamn house and if you really have to fuck him, you do it at the hotel with the door locked, y’understand that? Cover his mouth so no one hears.” Jon’s eyes skimmed Ryan over and Ryan wondered why there was so much danger to that stare. 

Ryan nodded. It was his last night to fully enjoy how vulgar Jon was; he shouldn’t protest. No matter how much he wanted to punch Jon Walker for the things he said. No matter how much he did. Wanted to connect his knuckles with Jon's jaw. Listen to the way his teeth cracked against one another when the punch collided. Watch Jon stagger back and hit the floor. No matter how much he wanted to. Only smiled. It wasn’t the type of night to argue with. 

He said, “Seems fair.”

“You’re bringing him back in once piece,” Jon continued and it wasn’t a request. 

“I plan to.”

Jon wet his lips and he shifted his hands in his pockets again. It was unnerving to see him without a drink, Ryan decided. He didn’t like it. Wished Jon Walker was as drunk as he usually was. Jon asked him, almost nearing a nervous edge to his voice, “Your girl gonna be there? Lizzy, or something.”

“Elizabeth,” Ryan supplied. “Z. She will be.”

Jon hummed. “Right, right. Would be going on six years with that filly, right?”

Ryan swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Damn.” Jon whistled. “Whole other life to live.” 

Ryan sent him a questioning look. 

“Whole other deal there, y’know? With the broad. Lot of options with a girl. Lizzy. Think about that. Think about the life you coulda lived with a dame,” Jon said in a melancholy way. A way that meant Ryan was supposed to feel guilty that he wasn’t in love with a girl anymore. Supposed to feel guilty for loving Brendon. “If you weren’t a fag.”

“Not a fag,” Ryan returned, trying to keep his tone level. He flexed his fingers. Jon Walker had a very punchable personality. 

“But he is.” Jon gestured with a hand to Brendon and Eric. He could have been talking about either. Ryan followed the movement with his eyes and listened to Brendon laugh and Eric say something about Las Vegas, something about casinos, lost money, and something about men he used to know but could no longer remember the faces of. 

Ryan didn’t like the word. Didn't like how 'faggot' sounded. He didn’t like Jon Walker much for using it. Didn't like Jon Walker at all. Not hatred; it wasn’t that. It was just an exhaustion when Jon spoke. A tiredness he couldn’t explain. An irritation when Jon spoke about Brendon. Said things that shouldn't be said aloud. The need to get a good punch in before he fled to Vegas. 

“Lot easier to date a broad,” Jon went on, unaware how easy to punch he was. “To fuck girls. Marry them. Would be smarter.”

“You’re right,” Ryan amended. “It would be easier.” 

Brendon cackled at something Eric had said, one of his eyes squinting more than the other and the sound was confident, airy. He wasn’t sweating as much as he usually did after he sang; nothing but a healthy glow to his smooth skin that caught the dim lighting of The Church. His black hair flopped over his forehead, stringy and wet, and he was beautiful. Really quite divine. 

Ryan found himself smiling. 

Jon Walker was right. 

It would be a hell of a lot easier to fuck girls. To fall in love with girls and marry girls and not worry how the world looked at him because he had a girl on his arm. Not worry about the world finding out at all. About watching his back or looking at someone in the wrong manner. Wouldn’t have to worry about a damn thing. If he dated a girl he could hold her hand in public and kiss her on a park bench with people around and give her flowers. If he still loved Z, he could get married and it would all be so easy. 

Ryan had always wanted to get married. To have children someday and live that perfect apple-pie life with a white picket fence and a dog and big backyard that his kids could run around in. He couldn’t do that with Brendon though. Couldn't get married. Couldn't have kids. Couldn't even kiss without the blinds closed. The closest they would ever be able to get to that—to marriage—would be to move in with one another and pretend they were roommates. Pay for a house with two bedrooms and sneak back and forth between the two so they both looked lived in. Lie their asses off every waking moment. 

It was a hard life to live; a life that Ryan Ross wasn’t made to be living. Wasn't born to be a liar. But he could see Brendon smiling and hear him laughing across the room and he had to smile. Jon Walker might have been right, but Ryan was happy with his choices. He wondered when he had started loving to lie so much. 

“But I’m not going to do that,” he said to Jon. He quirked a grin in the bar owner’s direction. “Fuck easy, right? Overrated.”

Jon snorted and looked away, back to Eric, shaking his head back and forth slowly. “Sure, Ryro. If that’s how you wanna play it. Fuck easy.”

They fell into silence and Ryan focused his attention back on Brendon and Eric’s conversation a few feet away from them, training his ears to listen to what they were saying to one another. Well, what Eric was saying to Brendon and what Brendon was laughing so beautifully at. 

“I think his name was Gabe,” Eric was saying urgently. He was miming it out with his hands for some obscene reason. “Good face on him. Thinner, long face. Very nice. Great mouth. Plush. If you meet him, tell him Eric says hi.”

Brendon rolled his eyes for the tenth time, his smile fond. “I will, Eric. If I meet a guy named Gabe in Vegas, I’ll tell him Eric says hi.” He glanced up at Ryan. “Hey, Ry, you know a guy named Gabe down in Las Vegas?”

Ryan raised his brows as he faced Eric, vaguely recounting a conversation with Eric a few nights ago where he mentioned pining after a straight man that he once knew. He asked, “This the guy from Vegas you mentioned?” 

Eric nodded rapidly. “The one, the only.”

Ryan chuckled and lied through his teeth, “Yeah. I might know him.”

Eric’s face instantly lit up, his hickory eyes fixed on Ryan. They were starry, excitable. An elbow jabbed Ryan in the ribs and he grunted, scooting away from Jon’s arm, rubbing at his side with his fingers to ease the sharp pain that had sprouted there. He glared at Jon, baring his teeth. Never had he wanted to punch someone more. 

“Don’t get his hopes up,” Jon warned, something of an irritation to his voice. “He won’t shut up about it if you do.”

“Eric can shut up?” Brendon called out. “That’s news to me.”

“Hey,” Eric complained, tapping Brendon half-heartedly in the side; an imitation of what Jon had done to Ryan. “I can shut up if I want to.”

“No,” Jon folded his arms over his suit. Bored. “You can’t.” 

“Yeah,” Eric agreed after a thoughtful moment. “You’re probably right about that.”

Ryan and Brendon laughed in tune with each other. Even Jon Walker had the decency to force a smile.

“Better be careful getting him home,” Brendon said to Jon, letting Eric hang an arm over his shoulders. “The man can barely stand upright.”

“I can stand fine,” Eric argued but he didn’t let go of Brendon. “Only drank a tiny bit; no need to fuss. Besides, what was I supposed to do? Not drink? We’re in a _bar_ , boys. Have obligations.”

“Told you.” Ryan sent Jon a look. He pointed a finger. “Bad influence.”

Jon Walker scowled at Ryan before snapping his eyes to Brendon. “Go lay him down, huh? On the sofa. Get him a glass of water too. Can’t believe it. Ronnie, you’re a goddamn moron.”

“Thank you.” Eric’s grin was toothy. He touched the hand that wasn’t looped around Brendon to his heart. “Means everything to me. You're so kind.” 

Brendon helped Eric to the sofa across the room with another scoff. It was sad in a way to Ryan; the realization that the last time he would see Eric Ronick—at least for a few weeks—was when he was drunk. He wondered why Eric decided tonight was the night to get wasted. Granted, Jon Walker was the one that had been bringing him drinks all night long while Eric hammered at his piano. 

Something about Brendon’s last night singing and all. Had to make it special. His last night for a while, anyway. Just for a while. 

Jon watched them reach the other side of the room before he turned his entire body to the side to face Ryan. Narrowed his eyes on him. Ryan had a devastating feeling that he was about to have a conversation he didn’t want to have. 

Jon pointed a finger. “You’re gonna call him when you reach Vegas.”

“I already said I was,” Ryan returned. He didn’t need to go over it again. He wasn’t a child. He could remember basic things. 

“I mean it though.” Jon folded his arms back tightly and his suit crinkled beneath the force. “You’re gonna call him.”

Ryan turned to face him as well. There wasn’t enough space between them but Ryan didn’t say anything about it. Let them hover a foot apart. He tilted his head to the side. “Why’s it so important that I do, Jon?”

Jon huffed, glancing at the floor. He muttered, “I need a glass.”

“Why don’t you make one then?” Ryan asked. 

“Eric drank all my brandy.”

“You’re the one that gave it to him,” Ryan returned matter-of-factly.

Jon glared back. Danger. “He asked me for it.”

“I’ll call him,” Ryan repeated, keeping his tone level. "I _will_ call Eric." 

“You have to.”

“Why?”

Jon took a sharp breath and darted his eyes away to Brendon helping Eric lay down on the sofa. Eric had wrapped his arms around the back of Brendon's neck and was blabbering on again. Brendon was trying to push him away but he was grinning. 

“Why, Jon?” Ryan repeated, steadily losing patience. 

“It’s not only him… who wants to know you’re alright,” Jon admitted begrudgingly. “Not only Eric.” 

Ryan blinked. “Who else would—”

“Talked to Dally tonight.” It was spoken so passively, as though Ryan should have been able to just go right on by it. As if it wasn’t anything of importance. But, of course, it was of major importance. Dallon Weekes was an important guy.m

Ryan reeled back in surprise and he said, voice lowered, “Dallon? Weekes?”

“You know many other ‘Dally’s’?” Jon snipped back. “Yeah, Weekes. Dally. I talked to him tonight. Few hours ago while B was on.”

“He was here?” Ryan gaped. The world felt increasingly small. Dallon Weekes had been there. He had been there and neither Ryan nor Brendon had known about it. There was an uneasy feeling settling in Ryan's gut. A guilty feeling. 

“Over the phone,” Jon explained and he waved a hand through the air. Ryan tried to relax. “Called to see if he was coming in. Surprise, surprise. He wasn’t planning on it. Not that I blame him. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to.”

“Did you tell him about—” Ryan started but Jon was quick to cut him off. 

“I like B. Don’t get me wrong, I do,” Jon informed and Ryan was mildly surprised by that as well. “But I been working with Dally a hell of a lot longer. Few years now. Kid means a lot to me. This place? It’s his too. He’s my guy. And no matter how much I like B, Dally deserves to know. Deserves more than that.”

“I didn’t say that he shouldn’t know; he should.” Ryan frowned. “I just figure it would have been better coming from Brendon s’all. Bren should have told him. I think he’d want to hear it from him.”

“Dally’s not gonna talk to him.” Jon scratched his nails across the material of his suit. “You really expect him to? After all that?”

“No.” Ryan sagged. “Suppose I don’t.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Jon added even though he really didn’t need to. Ryan didn’t need to hear any more about what a bad man he was from Jon Walker. He knew, goddammit. He knew. Didn’t have to keep bringing it up to him every time they tried to have a conversation. The topic was getting old. 

“He wants Brendon to call him?” Ryan clarified, trying to steer the conversation away from him and his mistakes. He knew that was where Jon wanted to take it. He had that habit. Kept trying to get himself punched. 

“Wants a lot of things,” Jon grunted and Ryan balled his hands to fists at his sides. He could punch Jon Walker. He could if he wanted. He wanted to. “None of ‘em things he’s liable to get. But yeah. Wants Brendon to call here. Know he’s safe when he gets to Vegas. S’what he says. Just wants to know the kid’s safe. Get me to call him so he knows. Sorta sweet.”

“I could call Dallon,” Ryan said before he thought about it. He thought about Dallon Weekes sitting at home in his duplex, at his dining room table with a phone in front of him, waiting for it to ring. Waiting to hear that Brendon Urie had really run away from him. Thought about Dallon's heart being broken. Thought about Brendon and he, breaking Dallon’s heart and running like they didn't care. Like Dallon Weekes didn't mean a damn thing. Would a good man do that?

“Wow.” Jon nodded, speaking as sarcastically as was humanly possible. “Great idea there, Ryro. I’m sure Dally would absolutely love talking to you. Hearing what your dumb ass has to say. Sure he would _love_ that. I bet Dally just loves _you_.”

Ryan’s stomach churned uneasily. He didn’t mean to break Dallon’s heart. He didn’t make Brendon love him. It wasn’t his fault. He stumbled through the words, “I didn’t mean for—”

Jon raised a hand. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

Ryan shut his mouth. 

“Simple thing here, Ryro,” Jon said. “You go to Vegas with the boy. You get him a hotel. You see your girl, pretend you still like her and other pussies. You get inside your house. You call here. Eric shits himself over it and then we call Dally when you hang up. Dally knows B is safe and that’s good to go. That’s all there is to it. Doesn't need to be a thing.”

“He should have gone to Brendon,” Ryan replied. He believed that too. Dallon should have talked to Brendon. Not gone through Jon Walker. Nothing good came out of Jon Walker’s mouth. 

“Should’ve done a lot of things,” Jon said back and Ryan hated the apathy in his voice. Hated that he didn’t have a drink in hand. 

“You need a beer,” Ryan said, because it was the only thing he could think to say. 

“I told you.” Jon’s smile was sharp. “Eric drank all my brandy.”

“Hey.” Brendon Urie was walking toward them, smile in tow. He walked in clean strides, hands in his pockets, and he had pushed his hair back from his forehead. Divine. It was enough to make Ryan’s blood simmer down, the anger draining away if only for a moment, and he smiled back easily. Brendon asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to the sofa where Eric had flung himself out, “How much did you let him drink, Jon?” 

“Too much,” Jon answered and Brendon seemed pleased with that answer, chortling in reply. 

“I was worried you know,” Brendon went on. “That I wouldn’t get to see Eric drunk before I left. Glad I got the chance. What a sight.”

“You should be. Doesn’t happen that often.” Jon’s smile twitched at the corners. “Kid’s a goddamn lightweight.”

Brendon laughed again, that fantastic sound, tilting his head back. When he calmed again, nothing more than a small bob to his shoulders, his eyes were more serious. More directed to Ryan and he knew what the look meant. Knew it was time to go. If they were really going to Las Vegas that morning. Only a few more hours before the sun was up. 

It was time to run from a broken heart. 

Jon refused to hug either of them. Only shake their hands and give Brendon a rough pat on the back. The look in his eyes as he held him wasn’t drunk enough. And his grip when he shook Ryan’s hand was too tight. He glared at Ryan when they parted and Ryan knew what those eyes were saying. _You’re a bad man, Ryan Ross_. And yeah, maybe he was. 

Eric hugged them while he was still laying flat on the couch. Refused to even so much as sit up. Only lay there on the furniture, stretched out precariously, holding his arms up like he was a child asking to be picked up by his mother. Brendon didn’t argue. He bent over and hugged Eric gently. 

Eric said into the embrace, muffled, “Your hair smells good.”

Brendon laughed as they parted, patting Eric on the chest to keep him down. “Feel better now, Eric. Drink water, huh?”

“Lots of it. Love water,” Eric agreed before wrinkling his nose. “Wait. No. Fuck water. Right, Jon?”

He propped himself up on his elbows, batting his eyelashes at Jon Walker who was standing at the end of the sofa, staring down at Eric's body strewn over the couch. Eric’s cheeks were rosy and his grin was crooked. 

He carried on, “Fuck clouds, air, and water too. Fuck it all. Doesn’t mean a thing.”

He seemed proud of what he had said and only stared expectantly at Jon to reply. Eventually, Jon found it in himself to nod and Eric was happy. 

He held his arms up for Ryan next and Ryan—surprised he was being invited—bent down to give him a hug as well. Eric promptly shoved his nose into Ryan’s hair and breathed in. Brendon snorted loudly when Eric pushed Ryan away, blinking profusely, obviously bewildered by something. 

“You smell the same,” he said and gestured between the pair sloppily. 

“Do we really?” Brendon asked, feigning shock as he looked to Ryan. “Must have used the same cologne.”

“You two smell like each other. God, you do. Smell like _love_ ,” Eric purred at them. Ever so happy. Giddy, in fact. And that’s why it was all the more jarring when he said the words aloud, accompanied by a smile, “They’re gonna eat you alive out there. Eat you the fuck alive.” 

Brendon’s scoff was nervous, not so open—not as proud as it had been—and Ryan could only stare at Eric and his goofy grin, like he hadn’t said anything worrisome at all. Jon Walker, on the other hand, laughed eagerly. Like something about it all was hilarious to him. Ryan didn't find it funny. 

“I’m sleepy,” Eric declared immediately after. 

“Go to sleep then, Ronnie,” Jon returned in a huff, half of a laugh still heavy on his lips. 

“Sit by me,” Eric requested—more of a demand—and while Ryan expected him to argue, Jon Walker ambled around them to sit next to Eric’s head on the couch without complaint. Without so much as a word. 

He sat there, looking uncomfortable in his own skin on the sofa, next to Eric and looked up at Brendon and Ryan with a shrug that said, _what else am I expected to do_? 

He patted Eric’s hair awkwardly with a hand and Eric seemed content with that, rolling onto his side and hugging his middle. 

“Do me a favor, huh?” Jon kept his eyes on Brendon and Ryan. Pulled his hands back into his lap and away from Eric. “Call when you get there.”

Brendon and Ryan nodded in unison. They would. The fucking said they would. 

“And tell what’s-his-name I say hi,” Eric added in half of a slur. His eyes were closed. He laughed slightly, more of a hiccup than anything else and repeated, in a song, “ _Hi._ ” 

“Do _us_ a favor,” Brendon responded. A joking tone. “Make sure Eric gets some rest.”

Jon chuckled and it almost sounded natural. Almost sounded like a real person had done it. “Been doing that for a long time, B. Wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Pet my hair,” Eric commanded, oblivious to the conversation going on above him. 

Jon hit him in the head, eliciting a whine from Eric as he put a hand to where he had been attacked, grabbing a handful of his own hair. Jon said sharply, “Don’t push your luck.”

Eric massaged his scalp with a wince, long fingers working through black tangles. He squeezed his eyes shut, grumbling, “Worth a try.”

“We’ll call you,” Brendon said and he meant it. They would. They said they would. 

Jon nodded. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

Brendon and Ryan turned like they were going to leave but Ryan added on quickly before they did, “And Jon? Get a drink, huh? You look like you need one.”

“Oh, I will.” Jon’s smile wasn't real. “Eric owes me one.”

Eric groaned. “Yeah, yeah.” He waited a moment to say, realizing that something was coming to a close, “And I’ll see you around, Urie. Ryan. You two. Package deal now. Better get both.” 

Brendon and Ryan nodded once more together. Like they were toy soldiers, fixed into only one position. Nod and nod again; the same question and answer every time. Why did Jon and Eric expect anything different? Almost felt like Ryan and Brendon were disappointing in some way. 

Brendon said, “You bet. Bye, Eric. You too, Jon. Thank you again. Bye.”

“Bye,” Ryan seconded. “Jon. Eric. Bye. Thank you.”

“Hate ‘thank you’s; ain’t needed. Quit saying ‘em,” Jon returned distastefully, face contorting like he had tasted something bitter. “I’ll hear from you soon.”

And he didn’t try to get any more out of them as Ryan and Brendon turned, starting toward the stairs. 

They had just gotten to the staircase, around the corner and away from Jon Walker’s peering, not-drunk-enough eyes, one foot on the steps, when Brendon reached for Ryan’s hand, tugging it into his own. His palm was rough, and he gripped onto Ryan's hand when he caught it. Ryan blinked, stopping abruptly at the base of the staircase, glancing from their intertwined hands to Brendon’s face. It was shiny and his eyes were round. 

Brendon smiled at him genuinely. His voice came out small. “Last chance, right?”

And Ryan had never hated a phrase more. Because it was true and the truth hurt more and more every time Ryan learned a new piece of it. The last chance to hold Brendon’s hand before they were out in the real world, out in a place that didn’t want them. The sound of The Church was quiet around them—the music long gone—and Ryan realized he was going to miss this place. He had only known it for three nights and he had only known Clearfield slightly over a week but he was going to miss it. 

He was going to miss it all. 

He squeezed Brendon’s hand back with his own, as hard as he could, saying with that gesture everything he thought. How much he hated the world and its secrets and lying. How much he hated last chances. 

He used his free hand to cup Brendon’s cheek, the smooth curve of his jaw, fingers resting just below Brendon’s ear. He let his palm rest there for a second, feeling the smooth warmth of Brendon's cheek, darting his eyes over Brendon's face. 

"Hi," he mumbled. 

"Hey," Brendon whispered back. 

Ryan pulled him in for a kiss, keeping his hand on Brendon's jaw and the other hand in Brendon's. Brendon's free hand moved to his suspenders, sliding up one and onto Ryan's shoulder.

Brendon's lips were velvet against Ryan’s own, sliding neatly together. 

Ryan could taste that honey-filled voice on his tongue, overpowering and spilling into his own mouth as Brendon hummed in content, kissing him. Precise, knowing what was about to happen when they walked up the stairs. Knowing how long it would be before they were allowed to do this again. Brendon's grip on Ryan's shoulder tightened and Ryan held him close by the jaw. 

Last chance. Might as well make the most of it. 

“I love you,” Brendon said into Ryan’s mouth, a hiss. Only for him, Ryan, and an empty stairwell to hear. 

“I love you too.” Ryan kissed him again, harder.

When they parted, Brendon kept his forehead to Ryan’s, breathing hot pants into his face that felt like cigarette smoke. Brendon’s eyes were closed, eyelashes over red cheeks. The darkness of the stairwell thrust them into shadows, nothing but two male silhouettes on the stairs. Two shadows that the world wanted to burn out. Brendon said the words again, quieter. 

Ryan loved him too. 

A faint voice came from inside The Church, interrupting Brendon’s soft breaths on Ryan's lips. Quiet, nothing more than a song. Eric Ronick’s drunken spiel that Brendon and Ryan weren't supposed to hear. 

“Wish I was better at goodbyes," Eric's voice carried out to the stairs. "Always feel like I have something to say, y’know? Always have something right on the tip of my tongue and the bastard just won’t come off right. Won’t fall off my goddamn tongue. Y’understand? I’m always so _close_. So goddamn close to saying something, but I never actually do. Always comes out wrong.”

Ryan paused. Brendon and he leaned out of hiding an inch, hands holding onto one another's, to look at the sofas across the room.

Stared together at Jon Walker sitting there, one arm over the back of the furniture, drumming a tune with his fingers, and his eyes focused down at the man laying out on the couch beside him—Shit-Bricks-Eric-Ronick—one of Eric’s arms tossed haphazardly over his stomach, the other pressed between his body and the couch. His head was resting on Jon’s thigh and Jon wasn’t complaining about it—wasn’t saying a damn thing—only looking down at Eric and carding his fingers through screwed-up, black hair steadily. 

“It’s alright,” Jon Walker said as he pet Eric’s hair with a soft smile. His eyes were innocent and his voice was sober. “I think you said exactly what you needed to.” 

Ryan and Brendon pulled back into the safety of the stairwell, sharing a knowing look with one another. Their breathing mixed together in the dark. 

Last chance. 

Brendon pressed another kiss to Ryan’s lips, mouth sealed like he had a secret he needed to keep trapped inside, and when he pulled back, he took his hand with him from Ryan’s embrace. Ryan’s palm was cold without Brendon’s. His heart felt chilled by the loss. 

“C’mon,” Brendon mouthed and Ryan followed him up the stairs and out into the Clearfield air. Out into the real world.

They hadn’t touched since. 

But Ryan could taste Brendon’s lips on his and his voice in his mouth and he could feel the ghost of Brendon's fingers curled around his own as he sat across from Brendon Urie on a train to Las Vegas, crawling in his skin everywhere Brendon had ever touched him. Crawling everywhere. Sick with longing. 

His body didn’t feel like his own. 

He didn’t show it though. Sat upright in the train seat, staring out the window at all that green, hands resting in his lap. There was plenty of room on the bench, sure, but Ryan didn’t feel like spreading out. 

Brendon smoked his cigarette and blew out a breath that settled over the table in a haze of grey. 

“Think they’ll throw me a parade?” Ryan asked aloud for the first time since they had boarded and Brendon looked over at him in surprise.

His lips quirked to a smile quickly after. Like he knew what Ryan was getting at. He took a short drag from his cigarette and the wedding rings on his fingers caught the light from the window, glowing through the fog. “Hope so.”

“Do you?” Ryan asked, smiling himself. He started to relax. Felt the tension begin to drool from his form like water. He would feel better so long as Brendon kept talking. So long as he could hear Brendon's honey voice. 

“Oh yeah.” Brendon bobbed his head. “You know how much I love a parade.”

Ryan laughed. Nodded carefully. “I do.”

“Excited to go home, Ryan?” Brendon asked, a tad on the dramatic side. “Been gone _so_ long. Might not even recognize you.”

Ryan smiled at him. “Over the moon about it.”

The rest of the compartment was nearly empty. A couple a few tables over and a few singles somewhere. If Ryan Ross was a bolder man, he might have taken advantage of it. Might have put his foot against Brendon's beneath the table or reached out to discreetly take his hand. Try to hide it. But he wouldn't. He couldn't. And, even as bold as Brendon Urie was, he wasn’t a moron. He wouldn't do it either. So they settled for looking at each other, the ghost of each other's fingers crawling over their skin. 

Brendon didn’t try anything either. Only sat across from Ryan, spread out with his legs thrown over the arm, smoking his cigarette and wearing his dead man rings and a smile. Dressed in a polo shirt and blue slacks, his oxfords dulled from years of wear and the chain of his dog tag was noticeable around his neck, beneath his collar. Caught the sunshine from the window and glinted.

Ryan’s own dog tag was stuffed away in his pack, above their heads, his baby bible next to it and a pack of toy soldiers beside that. Three years of his life hidden away in one simple side pocket. And the last three weeks of his life sitting across from him in a chair, smiling and smoking, wearing dead man rings on his fingers. The next few years of his life too, if he was lucky, sitting there like he didn't have a clue. 

Ryan wished he had his toy soldiers to set up across the table; plan an attack. Something to distract the hands that rested in his lap, begging to be held. 

“You nervous?” Ryan asked him. 

Brendon gave him an odd look. 

Ryan pointed to the cigarette in Brendon’s hands. Kept his voice even. “You only smoke when you’re nervous.”

Brendon blinked and looked at the thing balanced in his fingers as if he hadn’t realized it was there. His eyes found Ryan again. He thought for a second before he said, “I’m allowed to be, aren’t I? Big stuff. Las Vegas. Big place.”

“Sure you're allowed,” Ryan amended. 

“Vegas seems like a scary place,” Brendon hummed. He batted his eyelashes. Made himself too pretty for his own good. 

“Oh yeah, of course,” Ryan said, trying to ignore it. Fidgeted his fingers in his lap. “I barely made it out alive the first time.”

He meant it as a joke but there was far too much truth to the statement. The first time he left Las Vegas he was bleeding and his knees were busted and his hands were scraped and his dad had hit him the face and called him a coward and Elizabeth Berg had broken his heart and Spencer Smith thought he knew more than he did. Too much truth to that statement. The truth was hardly clever.

“You’re gonna like it,” Ryan tried to reason after. Tried to distract his own mind. 

“I’m gonna like all those lights for sure,” Brendon added and Ryan was happy he was willing to move on. Happy Brendon was good at distracting him. But mad at the same time because Brendon was too distracting. Had lips too easy to kiss. “Besides, I gotta go to Nowhere now.”

Ryan raised a brow. “Where exactly is Nowhere, Bren?”

Brendon answered, “Nowhere is wherever the hell you want it to be, Dixie.”

Ryan sent a look around the train car in alarm. No one had seemed to notice. Their voices were low enough and the train car was big enough. People were sitting far enough away. But he still turned back to Brendon, fearful, who was smirking in an impossible way and Ryan bit back, glaring, “Don’t call me that.”

Brendon raised his hands in surrender before he took another drag from his cigarette. He wouldn’t stop smiling with those kissable lips. Distraction. 

“Feels the same, doesn’t it?” Ryan asked suddenly and Brendon frowned. “Like the first time we were here and we were coming back and you said you didn’t want a parade and I couldn’t shut up about going home and it was really getting under your skin. Feels the same. Am I pissing you off again?”

“You’re getting there.” Brendon shouldn’t have looked at him the way he did then. It was far too obvious. Anyone that looked would know. Anyone. “But it feels a little different to me.”

Ryan swallowed. Sent another look around. There was fear pumping its way through his veins. Lies making their way to the tip of his tongue for when he needed them.

“Feels like a world ago,” Brendon spoke up again. “France. Like it wasn’t even me, you know? Someone else was out there, someone else’s uniform and someone else’s gun and boots. Someone else entirely.”

Ryan thought about closing his eyes when he pulled triggers. “I know.”

“You ever worry you’re a bad man, Ryan Ross?” Brendon asked and there was something that darted through his eyes that Ryan couldn’t read. 

He couldn’t hide his surprise at the question, the way it dripped from Brendon’s full lips, black eyes round and unblinking. Nothing glazed over about them now. Nothing but imploring. 

Ryan thought about it for a second. “I worry about it, yeah.”

“Huh.” Brendon blew some smoke. His tone went softer. More meaning behind the words. “You know you’re not, don’t you? You’re not bad.”

“You didn’t ask me if I was a bad man,” Ryan returned simply. “You asked me if I _worried_ I was one.”

“Right.” Brendon nodded. “And I’m telling you there’s no reason to worry about it. You're not.”

“Of course there’s a reason. I think I’m allowed to worry about it. Same as you about Vegas.” Ryan cocked his hand. “Can’t come out of France and think yourself high and mighty. France knocks you down a peg; you’d be a liar if you said it didn’t.”

Brendon snorted smoke. “Tell Dan Pawlovich that; I bet he needs to hear it.”

“If we see him,” Ryan returned. “I will.”

There was a pause while Brendon laughed at him. Ryan watched the way his eyes squinted; one more than the other. He tried not to smile too wide, too fond. Tried not to be too obvious. Tried not to make it too obvious that he was thinking about kissing Brendon. Thinking about the moment they made it to his house in Las Vegas. Thinking about grabbing Brendon by the dog tag and hauling him in. Kissing him in the doorway where he told Z he loved her for the first time. 

“Do _you_?” he asked and Brendon looked at him through the smoke. He elaborated, “Worry?”

Brendon shrugged and took a drag. “Not so much anymore. Used to. For a minute there in Normandy I did. But not anymore. I did bad shit. No way around it. I did it. Can’t worry about it now though. It’s done now. Couldn’t take it back if I tried.”

As if for emphasis, he looked down at the rings on his fingers and Ryan’s eyes followed suit. Followed to the silver and gold bands that encircled Brendon’s piano fingers. Ryan wondered what Z and Spencer would think of the rings. If Z would even know what they were. Spencer would know right away. Would be able to look Brendon in the eyes and see all those wedding bands, and he would know. He'd know what kind of men Brendon and Ryan were. Would he think Brendon grotesque for it? 

Ryan thought about explaining promises to them. Sitting Spencer and Z down and trying to make sense of it. How a promise couldn’t be wasted. How Brendon was doing the right thing. He wondered if anyone other than Brendon and he would understand it what a promise was. 

“I don’t worry about being a bad man,” Brendon said, bold. “I revel in being one.”

Ryan rolled his eyes and Brendon grinned, taking a drag. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Why not?” Brendon asked. “Part of the fun. I went to France. I’m allowed to be.”

“You’re not a bad man,” Ryan decided. 

Brendon’s black eyes flashed. Darkness to them. “Am I not?”

“You’re not.” Ryan held his gaze. He wasn't afraid of the shadows there. Wasn't afraid of falling in.

“How can you know?” Brendon asked him. 

“Bad men don’t care about Nowhere,” Ryan replied as if it were any answer at all. Brendon seemed to take it as one. Ryan didn’t say anything else out loud. Not what he was thinking. His other explanations. 

He didn’t say that bad men didn’t smile how Brendon did. Didn’t laugh how Brendon did. Didn’t have the same evil, black eyes and didn’t have the same full lips. Didn't look quite so feminine.

A bad man didn’t have a honey-filled voice like that and they didn’t smoke when they were nervous and they didn’t cry on Christmas in France when their friend shot himself in the foot. A bad man didn’t go for aces when they played Rummy with William Beckett. 

A bad man wasn’t over the moon about sleeping late, the taste of good coffee after so long, a Tom Collins while they sang, and some upbeat jazz to even out Ryan’s affinity for the blues. A bad man didn’t say their favorite color was red until they went to war. 

Didn’t love the taste of sugar. 

A bad man didn’t kiss Ryan the way Brendon did. Didn’t hold his hand or give him a bath when his dad hit him or tease him about his affinity for suspenders. Didn’t deserve to have a baby bible written about them. A bad man wasn’t as easy to love as Brendon Urie was. 

Brendon wasn’t a bad man. He could worry about it as much as he wanted. It didn’t change the fact. 

“You care about Nowhere, huh?” Brendon asked, looking at Ryan. 

“Course I do,” Ryan answered. “Finally get my chance.”

Last chance. 

“Your chance?” Brendon asked. 

“Uh-huh.” Ryan smirked. “Walking off to nowhere, you and me. Going off on a death whim. Finally get to. How do you feel about that?”

“A death whim,” Brendon repeated. He was smiling, true and unbroken and unbothered and it was obvious how good he was. What a good man Brendon Urie was even if he didn’t want to admit it. Even if he thought himself too proud. Too dramatic to be good. 

“A death whim.” Ryan folded his arms. “How you feel about that?”

“Pretty good,” Brendon replied. “Death doesn’t deter me when it comes to you.”

Ryan widened his eyes and he was going to say something—he swore he was.

He was going to say something about taking Brendon to see Las Vegas lights. Going to say something about walking down the strip with him and holding Brendon's hand in his own and kissing him beneath the fluorescent glow. Going to say something about sleeping with Brendon in his own bed and holding him close. About kissing him slow and taking baths and playing Rummy with him. About making him tea and coffee. About grabbing Brendon the first chance he could and not letting go. Going to say something about loving Brendon but he didn't get a chance. 

There was a voice overhead, loud and unwelcome. Booming. 

“Las Vegas. Las Vegas. Watch your purse. Watch your pockets closer. It’s Las Vegas.”

Brendon and Ryan shared a look. 

Ryan wanted to say something about dying. Something profound about war and lying and something that made Brendon think. Something that made sense. And like Eric Ronick said. Something like a goodbye, balanced on the end of his tongue but he didn't know how to say it. Didn't know how to tell Brendon he wasn't afraid of burning either.

Brendon was sitting there in a haze of smoke, legs tossed over his chair, dead man rings on and glinting in the light with his dog tag beneath his collar, and his smile was dazzling and it was a bit too much for Ryan, looking at him. All of it a bit too much. There he was. Plain as day. He was staring at Ryan with big eyes, begging to be kissed. Shatter-me black eyes on evil, whiskey ones and Ryan loved him. Ryan had a hundred things he wanted to say and his tongue couldn't form one of them. 

If Ryan Ross liked boys, Brendon Urie would be a boy he could like. 

Except Ryan didn’t like boys. And he didn’t like Brendon. He loved him. 

There he was, the boy Ryan loved. 

“Bren,” Ryan said, choked, and that meant something about death and love and that they had to go; that meant it was time and he was standing to get their bags, shaky on his legs. 

“Ryan,” Brendon answered with a small smile and that meant ‘I love you too’. 

The speaker was going again. Brendon went to retrieve his own bag and their hands brushed for a second as he passed. Ryan let it calm him. Took a breath to steel himself. Last chance. It wasn't a last chance. It was a first chance. Las Vegas was a new chance. 

“Bren,” Ryan repeated and this time it meant come on. This time it meant come with me to Las Vegas, to Nowhere, and kiss me when we get there. 

“Yeah,” Brendon said back and it meant okay. It meant let's go. 

And together—off the train to Nowhere—they went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! 
> 
> If you have any questions, comments, concerns—or just want to say hi—feel free to hit me up on tumblr (@daydadahlias). 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading.


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